Hacked
by SoftPurple Sherlockian
Summary: Sherlock has a bad habit of hacking into Johns email account and sending himself messages, which he later reads while pretending the doctor sent them to him. ***WARNING: Rated M for mature content, kinks, bdsm, and &M/M***
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock laid in bed, listening to John get ready for work. 'three...two...one' thought Sherlock, just as the kettle began to screech. He counted Johns footsteps (eight), and deduced that the good doctor had been on the sofa, putting his shoes on when his water came to a boil. Sherlock listened to John pour his tea into his thermos, and swear because he was running late for his volunteer work at the hospital. Sherlock smiled in spite of himself as he recalled with great clarity the day John came come and told him he was only working on a volunteer basis from that moment on:

* * *

Sherlock had been lying on the sofa, his blue dressing gown hanging open as he unabashedly stared at the ceiling. He was bored. It has been forty-six hours since the last case he'd solved (honestly, how did Lestrade not notice the ring on the man's little finger?) and now Sherlock was itching for something to occupy his ever busy mind. He could hear John coming up the stairs, two at a time...'he must be anxious to sit down', Sherlock thought as he concentrated on the sound of John unlocking the door to the flat they shared at 221B Baker St. He made no effort to move as John walked over to his chair and practically threw himself onto it.

"Well" John started, "That was one hell of an afternoon!"

John stared at Sherlock, unsure if the detective was even aware of his presence. He had learned that the easiest way to get Sherlock's attention, was to leave a sentence hanging midair. The detective would eventually frustrated by the lack of explanation and inquire. So John waited.

… thirty seconds.

… forty-five seconds.

… one minute.

… two minutes.

… two minutes and eighteen seconds had passed before John heard an annoyed Sherlock sigh and ask "Well? What was so awful about today as opposed to the others you spend with the rest of the human population?"

John couldn't help but smile and poke fun at Sherlock "Oh, I'm sorry. I wasn't aware you were waiting for me to elaborate."

"John, please don't be so obtuse. I'm well aware of the fact that you expected me to ask you about your, how did you phrase it? Ah yes 'one hell of an afternoon'. If flailing into your arm chair wasn't hint enough, the increased rate of your breathing gave you away after a mere one minute and thirty-nine seconds of silence. Since it's apparently important to you that I partake in this conversation, I am doing so. Now please, continue."

John smirked and stared again "I met with the chief and the board of directors today to turn in my resignation." He waited for any indication from Sherlock that he had actually heard him. He was rewarded with a small tilt of the head - probably unnoticeable to anybody else, but John was tuned to Sherlock's body language. You don't share a flat with a bloke for two years and not pick up on his mannerisms.

"I decided that, what with the blog taking off and us getting more cases as a result, I couldn't keep trying to give one hundred percent of myself to both jobs."

John paused and glanced up at Sherlock, who was now watching him intently. John took a deep breath and dove back into his explanation with a vigor he didn't have before.

'Approval' noted Sherlock. 'He's waiting for me to give some indication of my approval or displeasure at this rather unexpected news.'

"I would still be working there, just on a volunteer basis, you know, whenever the case load is low or..." John trails off as he searches Sherlock's face for any sign as to what the tall, curly haired man was thinking.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm"

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Mmm"

"That I quit my job?"

"Mmm"

"Can you say anything else?"

"Mmm"

"Sherlock?!"

"Yes, John?"

"If you would rather I didn't, I can always call Doctor Meca back and explain that the situation has changed. I'm sure he would be more than happy to ignore what we discussed this afternoon."

John continued to search Sherlock's face, only able to see his profile, as he had returned to his previous position of staring at the ceiling. He slid his eyes over the angles and lines, his high cheekbones, his heart shaped lips, his long neck, back up to the mess of curls that sat on top of the man's head, looking for any outward sign of displeasure at his decision.

"I mean, I would understand if you didn't… want me around, that is…"

"Why wouldn't I want you around, John?"

John sat back in his chair, and Sherlock could practically feel the tension leaving the man's body. His whole posture changed, he was more relaxed and gradually his respiratory rate slowed to a normal level. 'Interesting' Sherlock thought. John was clearly nervous about having this discussion. 'Very interesting indeed'.

"So… you're alright with this, me being around more than usual, helping more with cases?"

Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards.

"Yes, John, I don't see any reason why that should be a problem."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock laid in bed, waiting for John to leave. As soon as he heard the door open and shut, and footsteps going down the stairs, Sherlock jumped up and crossed his room to the window, where he proceeded to watch John make his way to the other side of the street to flag down a cabbie. He had been eating his words for the last three months_, 'I don't see any reason why that should be a problem',_ He shut his eyes and tried not to think about just how much of a problem it was.

Not that having John around affected cases, quite the contrary. John was a remarkable doctor and Sherlock enjoyed his company. It was a special kind of torture, because as much as the detective craved the presence of Doctor Watson, it was his presence that was maddening.

In every case, John displayed courage and skill that Sherlock found admirable, but with each case they solved, Sherlock was beginning to notice more and more about the the doctor that had him unwillingly and altogether painfully aroused. The feeling brought on a stifling sense of panic, all Sherlock needed was for Anderson or Donovan to see him in that state and he would be, for lack of a better word, fucked. The two dull creatures already thought that Sherlock got off on the really grotesque cases, the last thing he needed was for one of them to spot him with an erection as he gazed longingly upon his doctor bent over a corpse.

Sherlock closed the curtains behind him as he made his way to the kitchen. He was pleasantly surprised to find a cup of tea waiting for him, though, he really shouldn't be surprised anymore - John was always doing things for him. They had an understanding of each other, an understanding that no one else seemed to get. On the outside, Sherlock appeared indifferent to these acts of kindness and anybody else would think him unappreciative, but John Watson knew. He understood that Sherlock didn't know how to convey emotions and he seemed to be okay with that. _'I really should make more of an effort'_ the detective mused, before his mind drifted over to his latest experiment that was sitting on the ring of the stove.

Sherlock glanced at the clock, ten past ten, John should be at work by now. Sherlock smiled and walked over to the laptop sitting on the corner of John's desk. With tea and laptop in tow, Sherlock made his way to the couch and sat down. He opened a new tab on the browser and went to Johns' email account. It took him 23 seconds exactly to figure out Johns new password, he was getting more creative, but his pattern was still the same, thus making Sherlock's job all the easier.

Sherlock scanned John's new emails, most of it conference invitations and patient files and spam that Sherlock didn't give a second thought to. He clicked on the button to compose a new message.

To: HolmesS_Detective .uk

* * *

From: WatsonJH .uk

* * *

Subject: Eyes

* * *

Body:

Did you really think I was going to let you get away with that, Sherlock? Honestly, eyeballs in a pot on the stove!? What have I told you about having experiments in the kitchen where we keep our food. You knew I was mad as hell, you always know. My anger was evident on my face as soon as I peered into that disgusting pot you left for me to find.

You want this. You want to be punished. Don't sit there and pretend that you don't. Why else would you blatantly ignore the relatively simple request I made? You want me to punish you. Don't worry love, I'm not going to disappoint, and you're going to enjoy every minute of it.

Do you want to know what I have in store for you when I get home? Of course you do. I can almost see you sitting there with that intense gaze in your eyes, your face never leaving the screen, absorbing every word you read. Very well love, pay attention. When I come home, I expect you to be naked on all fours, greeting me at the door. You're going to take my shoes off for me and wait for me to lead you to the sitting room.

Do you know what I'm going to do then Sherlock?

I'm going to whip you. I'm going to leave long red welts down your porcelain back with that riding crop you keep in your wardrobe. Oh yes, I know all about the riding crop. Who did you think you were fooling, claiming it was for the corpses at the morgue? I'm going to strike to 15 times, from shoulder to spine. and you're going to thank me for every single one. Maybe next time you will be more considerate about where you leave your little projects around the house.

You're going to be so hard after I beat you, your cock aching to be touched. I'm not going to though, nor am I going to allow you to touch yourself. Do you know what's going to happen instead, Sherlock? Use that wonderful brain of yours and think.

I'm going to grab a handful of your hair and bring you to your knees. What can you deduce about your current position, love? Yes. You're going to suck my cock. You're going to take me to the back of that beautiful throat of yours and you're going to swallow my entire length. You know how appreciative I am of that marvelous tongue of yours. I'm not going to come in your mouth, you would enjoy that too much. No, when I get close, I'm going to spin you around and slam into you. I'm going to fuck that arse of yours until you beg me to let you come. I'm not going to prep you, it's going to hurt Sherlock, and you're going to love it. You're going to yell and you're going to scream my name. If you expect any mercy from me tonight, there will be none, so I suggest you go into your bedroom and start stretching for me, that's the only kindness I'm going to offer you. Take those elegant fingers of yours and fuck your arse, and remember what's in store for you when I get home.

Your Doctor

* * *

Sherlock pressed the send key, and went about his ritual of deleting all offending evidence from the SENT folder. He closed John's laptop and put it back on the corner of the table, matching the line of dust so it appeared undisturbed.

He made his way up the stairs to John's bedroom, stopping only to collect his own computer along the way. Sherlock stood in the doorway and admired the view that was 100 percent John, from the hospital corners on the bed, to the jumper hanging on the back of the door. He took two steps inside and allowed the familiar scent to invade his senses. Sherlock could get high off of this smell, this mix of soap and cologne and sweat, it was a high that the cocaine never managed to take him to.

He took three strides and was at John's bedside. The detective lay down on the mattress and took a deep breath, his normal perfectly still hands shaking as he opened his own computer on his lap. He clicked the browser icon that would take him to his inbox and when prompted to enter his password, proceeded to type the square root of pi, with the proper letter substitutions in the correct places.

Inbox: 1 New Message

From: WatsonJH .uk

Sherlock tentatively opened the message, as his eyes read over every word he could feel his heart rate quicken and his pupils dilate. With a shaky breath, Sherlock closed the computer and rested his head against the board behind him. His long fingers made their way past the band of his pyjama bottoms and he wrapped his fist around his throbbing cock. He knew this was going to be quick, it always was when Sherlock read a message from His Doctor. He started to stroke from base to tip, using his thumb to spread the precome that had pooled at his overly sensitive head. Images of John flooded his mind as he recalled the words on the screen before him just moments before.

_Do you know what I'm going to do then Sherlock?_

He squeezed the tip of his cock, allowing the precome that had been beading there to run down his length as he continued to stroke himself.

_I'm going to whip you. I'm going to leave long red welts down your porcelain back with that riding crop you keep in your closet._

He threw his head back and imagined each blow of the crop against his skin as his thumb made small circles around the sensitive head of his prick.

_You're going to take me to the back of that beautiful throat of yours_

Sherlock could feel himself getting close, his balls tightening as he quickened the pace.

_I'm going to fuck that ass of yours until you beg me to let you come._

"Please! Please John, I'm going to come. Please?!" Sherlock called out has he spilled into hand.

He laid there and tried to catch his breath, when the familiar nagging feeling of guilt started to creep in, and Sherlock willed it away. He rationalised that this was the closest he would ever be to John Watson, and as long has the doctor remained in the dark, what harm could come from it? Sherlock went through the motions of cleaning himself with the tissues John kept next to his bed, and remade the sheets as neatly as they were before.

He knew that this was all he had, these few hidden emails and stolen moments alone in John's room. John would never find out, this was Sherlock after all, and he was very careful. For a few brief moments, Sherlock could close his eyes and pretend that the words on the screen came from his friend and flat mate. For a few brief moments, he could close his eyes and pretend that John Watson wanted him.


	3. Chapter 3

A soft rain had fallen over London as John left the hospital that evening.

'_flagging down a cabbie will be all but impossible'_, he sighed to himself as he made his way outside and started walking toward Baker Street. Besides the light drizzle, the weather was quite fair, and John was starting to question his choice of jumper.

'_Should have worn the grey one today, it's lighter.' _The doctor sulked as he continued on his journey _'Bloody weather man can't get anything right'._

He walked past people scrambling to collect their belongings as the rain started to fall heavier, families ushering children into waiting vehicles, women placing bags over their heads in a sad attempt to keep their hair dry, and men opening umbrellas. The rain didn't bother John, when he was in Afghanistan, he was subjected to the elements on a daily basis. It would be weeks on end before any rain fell over there, and John welcomed the droplets of water on his face like an old friend, never taking them for granted upon his return home.

Johns was snapped out of his daydream when his eyes focused on a petite, chestnut haired woman who was walking towards him. She was fairly attractive, not beautiful mind you, but she had a certain prettiness about her. She was tiny, standing no more than 5 feet tall, give or take an inch, with shoulder length hair that layered to frame her doll like face, John could imagine how full it normally was when it wasn't plastered to the sides of her face by the rain. She was too far away to make out the colour of her eyes, so John focused on her tiny, upturned nose and lips that were forced into a grimace as she wrapped her arms around her body in a hug, as if to comfort herself from the intruding storm that had swept overhead.

John fixed his attention to her light blue cotton blouse, which was clinging to her body in a way that left little to the imagination. He could clearly tell the young woman wasn't wearing a bra, and shifted his eyes to her hard nipples, that were straining against the fabric. John could feel his groin start to tighten and chastised himself for getting turned on like a fourteen year old school boy who'd just found his father's magazines!

_'It's been too long since you've gotten laid',_ the doctor told himself, as the young woman walked past him. John let out an audible sigh and quickened his pace in his effort to get home. All he wanted to do was take a hot shower and watch some telly with a cup of tea, if Sherlock had finished with his experiment that is. John couldn't even count the number of times he had asked the detective to keep his projects out of the kitchen - that was where he prepared food for God's sake! He had kept his mouth shut about it last night, but his displeasure was written all over his face and he knew that Sherlock saw it. John had learned to pick his battles with his flat mate, and while he wasn't happy about having a pot of eyes stewing on the stove, he knew it could always be worse, so he was saving his fight for when it would be.

When John entered the flat, he wasn't the least bit surprised to find Sherlock sitting on the coffee table, with his hands folded at his face as he was lost in thought. John had long since given up trying to make any sort of conversation with Sherlock while he was in his mind palace, it was pointless, so John nearly jumped when he heard the detective speak.

"_You walked home."_

"_What makes you say that?"_ John answered in response to the detective's abrupt statement.

Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards; honestly, John could be so daft sometimes. _"You're wet John. It was a fairly simple deduction."_

"_I could have just gotten wet by getting out of the taxi."_

Sherlock did so enjoy when John prompted him for an explanation to an obvious conclusion, and the man was happy to elaborate. _"No. It takes you a mere seven seconds to get from the kerb to the flat, eleven if you grab the wrong key. The rain isn't falling hard enough for you to be that wet from simply walking from the road. That, and the fact that it's twenty-three minutes after five… a cab ride would have put you home at six minutes past. Both of these factors added together, I can only deduce that you made the trip by foot. Am I right?"_

_"Of course you're right you wanker, you know you are."_ John stated as he made his way to the laundry basket and started peeling off his soaking wet clothes.

"_Had to set a wrist and pin a knee today"_, he continued. _"Then we had a gunshot wound after lunch, the bullet was lodged right in the sternum and…"_ John trailed off as he glanced back towards the detective, who he noticed was watching him with interest. In nothing but his briefs, John's eyes met Sherlock's heated gaze, and he could feel the heat beginning to creep into his cheeks. He straightened his spine and cleared his throat, _"I'll just, um, I mean, I'm going to get a shower. You know, erm, warm up from the rain."_

Sherlock said nothing, but John could feel his eyes on him as he made his way to the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Once in the safety of the small room, John allowed himself to relax_. 'What the bloody hell was that all about?' _he thought to himself, '_and why the fuck do I want it to happen again?'_ John pushed these thoughts out of his head as opened the shower door and turned the water on, allowing time for the water to become scorching hot. He shed his briefs and studied himself in the mirror.

John wasn't bad looking by any means, the years that had passed since his honourable discharge from the army had softened his appearance, but John still worked out regularly. It's true that he didn't have the build that he once had in his days as a soldier, but he was still fit, running all over the streets of London after Sherlock ensured some tone to his body.

John smiled at the memory of Afghanistan, the first time a recruit had muttered _"Yes, Sir"_ in the face of his authority, he was changed. He loved it, that kind of dominance over others had shaped and molded him into the man he was today. Of course, these were all parts of his personality that he buried deep down within himself and kept well hidden. The raven haired, lanky flat mate of his tested his control on a daily basis, and more often than not, John would have to retreat to his room to keep his emotions from running away with him. There was nothing he would enjoy more than to put Sherlock in his place, but John knew that Sherlock was a fragile creature. A child in many ways, and the last thing either of them needed was two control freaks living at 221B. So John kept his mouth shut, and bit his tongue whenever the urge to chew Sherlock out hit him, which was often.

_'God that man tests my patience!'_ John grunted as he made his way over to the shower and stepped inside.

It had been a rough day, they had nearly lost the gun shout patient, and it was only by a sheer miracle that they were able to extract the bullet fragments as the young man held on to his life. What John Watson needed right now was a distraction; he reached for the soap as images of the petite woman from the street entered his mind.

_The woman was walking towards him, her eyes never leaving John's. When they were a mere inches from each other, John reached down and grabbed a handful of the woman's hair and roughly pulled her into his demanding kiss. His lips were hard on hers, a combination and crushing and biting that would leave her pretty lips swollen and bruised._

John lathered the soap in his hands and reached down to grab his cock, not quite hard, but gave it a few firm strokes and cupped his balls. Giving them a gentle tug did the trick, and his cock stood straight out as John continued to stroke up and down his entire length.

_John pulled the woman into the adjacent space between the two shops, not really wide enough to be considered an alley, it was maybe only feet wide, and shoved her against the brick work of the building. His mouth leaving bite marks along her jaw line and throat, as he buried his fist in her hair and gave it a firm tug, causing a whimper from the young woman that went straight to his cock. She unzipped Johns trousers and pulled his cock out, her hands running along the length of him, taking her time to squeeze the head with her fingertips. John groaned and grabbed her thigh to straddle him as he sank into the wet heat of her pussy._

John continued to stroke himself as he thought about the chestnut haired woman he was likely to never see again. His right hand, which up until this point had been gently kneading his balls, moved behind him and he slipped a soapy finger into his arse and crooked his finger until he found his prostate.

His breath was becoming shallow, as he struggled to find release. He needed this, it had been a long day and he just wanted to relax. He started to picture his street woman in various positions, all leaving her at his mercy. He willed his mind to whip her, to bite her, to make her beg, but everything he thought of left him right on the edge, never fully sending him over into the bliss he was desperately trying to reach. John closed his eyes and cleared his mind, keeping his grip firm on his cock, and his pace steady. He was getting frustrated, as he tried to picture the young woman with welts from his belt, or with bruises on her wrists from his fingertips.

This was agony, John wanted desperately to come so he could go about his evening. It was a means to an end, and John just wanted to reach his destination. He was about to cut his losses when the heated stare from that evening flooded his memory, he allowed those blue/green eyes to invade his thoughts and could feel himself coming as he fisted his cock.

Panting, John opened his eyes. The water had started to chill so he quickly finished washing, and made sure all traces of his pleasure had gone down the drain. He stepped over to the tap and turned the water off, allowing himself to stand there for a moment longer to ponder what the fuck had just happened.

He stepped out of the shower and dried off, wrapping the towel around his waist, he opened the bathroom door and allowed the steam to spill out. Welcoming the chilled air hitting his body, he made his way to his bedroom, stopping for a brief moment to enjoy the violin music that was filling the air. John loved it when Sherlock played, it soothed him and he welcomed the calm feeling that it brought. He continued across the flat, and paused when the music hit an abrupt stop. John turned his head and met Sherlock's intense gaze, it lasted less than half a second before Sherlock returned his attention to his playing and John walked to his room.

He leaned against the door and let out a ragged breath.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock continued playing his violin, filling the air with a soft, melancholy tune well into the night. He had slept about five hours the night before, so he was good for a few more days, at least until John started nagging him about his lack of rest. Sherlock always acted annoyed when the doctor took that _'I know what I'm talking about, you git'_ tone with him, but deep down, he loved it. He loved knowing that there was someone around who worried about him, at first; it wasn't something Sherlock was used to, but he quickly grew fond of John's concern for his well-being, though he would never let him know it.

Sherlock looked after John as well, in his own way. The detective knew that John still had nightmares about the war, well, nightmares were too gracious a word… Night terrors were more like it. Those nights when John woke up screaming and stumbled his way downstairs for a glass of water, Sherlock never met his eyes. He knew John was embarrassed about it, so Sherlock would go about whatever experiment he was currently working on before John wandered downstairs, neither acknowledging what had lead John to the small confines of their kitchen.

Sherlock had found that the dreams occurred more frequently on days where John went to bed stressed; he also found that on nights he played his violin, the doctor slept more soundly. So Sherlock would find himself with his violin in hand, playing a favourite melody in hopes of calming his restless flatmate. It was a small bit of comfort that Sherlock could offer without giving himself away, something he could do for John without his knowledge, a small thing Sherlock could do to be close to him.

That particular evening, before the heated stares that Sherlock cursed for not keeping in check, before John locked himself in the loo, before the longing gaze that was shared as Sherlock tried to drown out his thoughts with the music, the detective had known John had a stressful day at the hospital. He could see the tension in his body as he entered the flat. Sherlock had always prided himself on being able to read anybody like the map of the city burned inside his brilliant head, and John Watson was no exception.

John opened the door and all was as it should be as Sherlock gave him a quick once over and made his deductions.

_Wet. Too wet to have taken a cab. Walked._

_Why walk? Stressful day?_

_Tension in neck and shoulders, stiff posture. Swallowing, dry mouth. Clenched jaw. Yes, stressful day._

_Mustard stain 2/3 of the way down on jumper. Always puts too much on bacon rolls. Bacon roll for lunch. Stain has had at least 4 hours to dry. Didn't eat until after 1pm. Late lunch. With a patient that required immediate attention?_ Sherlock recalled the news report on the telly about a gunshot victim.

"_Cosway Street. 11:34 AM. Only a 4 minute drive to St. Mary's Hospital. Yes, definitely the gunshot victim"_

Sherlock's deduction came to a brief halt as John started shedding his wet clothing and depositing them into the wicker basket Mrs. Hudson insisted they keep for their wash. Sherlock could feel his nostrils flare and his pulse quicken, even as he told himself to look away before he did something he would regret, he could not break the contact his eyes held over John. He studied John's scar, aside from the night terrors, the only reminder that he had been a soldier.

Sherlock found his mind spinning into a fantasy that he did not try to stop. John in his uniform, Sherlock kneeling in front of him as John barked orders at him. Sherlock felt a tiny shiver run down his spine before he snapped back and told himself to look away, half a second too late. John's eyes found Sherlock's, and the detective watched the quick intake of breath. His deduction skills, which he had proved were as sharp as ever a mere minute before, seemed to be failing him now.

Up until that very moment, Sherlock would have boasted to anyone that he could read John Watson as well as any of the other dull people that crossed his path on a daily basis, but right now John was doing something that didn't happen often. He was surprising Sherlock. The doctor wore a guarded expression that Sherlock didn't think possible. Clearly John was able to make himself completely unreadable by the tall, ebony haired detective, and this made Sherlock question how much of John he was ever actually seeing.

_What else is he guarding? Why is he guarding anything at all from me? _ These were the thoughts that flooded Sherlock's mind as he ran his bow across the strings in a rhythmic pattern. Lost in his own conciseness, Sherlock didn't even notice the rising sun, nor the bustle of activity starting to stir from the streets below. The one thing that did snap him away from his thoughts was the soft padding of bare feet coming down the stairs. Sherlock could feel himself smile, but never looked up in John's direction.

"When's the last time you slept?" John asked while making his way to his chair.

"Sleeping. It's so dull. There are so many other things one can do to occupy their time", was the only response he got in return.

"Sherlock, you didn't answer my question."

"I'm aware of that John. Try to refrain from stating the obvious, it's dreadfully boring."

"Just give me a fucking answer! Is that so bloody difficult?!"

Sherlock turned and stared at John at this abrupt outburst, John sat with his mouth gaping open, as if not believing the words that had just come out of his mouth and quickly apologised.

"Sorry. So sorry. Didn't get much sleep last night."

The detective didn't comment, he just watched as John put his shoes on and mumbled a quick goodbye before heading out of the door, as if he couldn't leave the flat fast enough.

Sherlock lowered the violin, and he could feel his stomach twist in knots as he recalled the sharpness in Johns tone. The recollection of the barking question sent a tiny shiver through him as he realised something else:

Sherlock spent all evening playing John's favourite pieces. The doctor never stirred once. John Watson did indeed get a full night of sleep and appeared well rested as he sat in his chair and got ready to start the day.

Sherlock smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

John Watson pulled the door behind him and made is way down the stairs and into the street to hail a cab. Sherlock was always so much better at flagging down a passing taxi, but John finally managed to get the attention of one and climbed inside before the cabbie barely had time to stop. Alone with his thoughts, and the cabbie, who was humming (rather badly) a song that John didn't recognise, he started to replay the events of the last fourteen or so hours over in his head. Not really sure what to make of what had transpired, John allowed himself a brief flash of the detective's shocked expression as John shouted at him moments before to fill his mind.

_Oh, Sherlock. _John chuckled to himself _if you had any idea…_

John didn't make it a habit to fantasise about his flatmate, as a matter of fact, whenever somebody so much as hinted at it, John would shut them down with a declaration of not being gay. It wasn't exactly a lie. John didn't like the labels society had, but if he had to pick one for himself, it would be _'decidedly bi-sexual'_, with a preference for women, as they were easier to assert control over. And Heaven knows, John Watson need to assert control over his partners, he needed it was much as breathing.

He didn't think about the status of his sexuality too much, he was attracted to whoever he was attracted to, and that was that. John had to admit, Sherlock was a beautiful man. Despite the detectives faults John knew better than anybody that he had a lot of them - he couldn't help but feel a pull towards Sherlock, his presence really was intoxicating, and John felt little to no guilt about allowing himself to get drunk off of it occasionally. Besides, if Mycroft's remarks were anything to go off of, his younger brother understood very little about sexuality anyway. John felt relatively at ease indulging in a nice, long wank while thinking about the slender detective begging for mercy, being confident that Sherlock wouldn't be any the wiser.

_What makes last night any different?_ John asked himself as he watched the buildings roll by. _It's not the first time you've thought about Sherlock…_ ,but John knew exactly what made the previous night so different from the times before it. Last night, when John caught Sherlock's gaze, his normally collected flatmate looked at him with fire in his eyes, he was staring at John with a cocky smirk, like he could hear every single thought the doctor had ever had regarding those long fingers or dark curls. It was all John could do not to walk over and slap the look off of Sherlock's perfectly angled face, and then cover up the blow with kisses.

John had chalked the incident up to his libido that had been stirred by the soaking wet woman on the street, and masked his emotions quickly before retreating to the shower.

John was pulled from his thoughts as the cabbie drove up to the entrance of the hospital. He quickly thanked the driver as he handed him the fare before stepping outside and making his way through the double doors of the hospital, determined to leave the confusion outside as he started his rounds.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry this is relatively short chapter compared to the others. I am working on chapter 6 right now, but I really felt like John needed his own chapter sort out his thoughts and so the reader could get some insight to the doctors process of the events.**


	6. Chapter 6

Back at the flat, Sherlock found himself in the familiar predicament of being bored. He desperately searched for something at would occupy his time and mind, all the while willing his phone to ring with a case from Lestrade. As Sherlock lay on the sofa, he was struck with the notion that John had not made tea that morning before bolting out of the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled from his reclining position on the couch.

He waited thirty seconds, listening for any sound of movement from downstairs before shouting again, "MRS. HUDSON!"

He let out an annoyed sigh before sitting himself up and walking across the flat to retrieve his cell phone out of the pocket of his jacket and typed out a text to John.

_Bored – SH_

Sherlock pressed the send button just as another thought popped into his mind.

_John, where do you keep_  
_the tea bags? – SH_

Why do you need the  
bags, Sherlock? I swear  
to God if this is for a  
bloody experiment.

_Honestly John, I don't_  
_have the sole purpose of_  
_experimenting every time_  
_I go into the kitchen. – SH_

They're in the cupboard  
next to the oven.

What are you going to  
do, Sherlock?

_Honestly John, I gave you_  
_more credit than that. –SH_

Sherlock?

_I'm going to make tea, John._  
_Does that answer satisfy your_  
_curiosity? –SH_

Do you even know how to make tea?  
I don't think you've done it a  
single time since I moved in.

_Of course I know how to make tea,_  
_John, but what's the point in doing_  
_so when you're here? –SH_

Sherlock…

Sherlock could practically hear the scolding in Johns voice as he read the warning on the screen in front of him. Leave it to John to correct his manners even when they weren't at the yard on a case. Sherlock lacked the most basic human etiquette of polite conversation, and John always kept him in check.  
_  
You know what I meant. –SH_

I do. Before you ask, the sugar  
is on the top shelf, next to  
the pasta to the left of the  
stove.

_Thank you, John. –SH_

Sherlock went into the kitchen and focused on the task at hand. Filling the kettle with water, he placed it on its base and got the sugar bowl down. He glanced in the fridge and picked up his phone again.

_We're out of milk –SH_

You don't take milk in your tea,  
Sherlock, so I fail to see how  
that's important.  
I am trying to work.

_I'm perfectly aware of how_  
_I take my tea, however, do you_  
_or do you not take milk_  
_in YOURS? And do you_  
_or do you not have tea_  
_every day after work?_  
_Honestly John, I was merely_  
_alerting you to the fact that_  
_there is no milk in the flat. So_  
_if you want your cuppa when you_  
_get home, I suggest stopping by_  
_the shop on your way. –SH_

Sherlock placed his phone on the work top at the screaming of the kettle which sounded as the water had reached a lovely rolling boil. He went about pouring his water, adding his sugar, and letting his tea steep as he looked at the blinking light on his Blackberry, alerting him of a new text message. He felt himself smile as he stared at the screen.

Thank you, Sherlock.  
I'll pick some up  
tonight._  
_

Sherlock made his way back into the den, stopping at the desk to collect the doctors' laptop, and made his way over to John's chair.

Opening the browser, Sherlock could feel the familiar anticipation as he signed into John's email account, and took a deep breath before swooping his delicate finger across the pad that led him to the button to compose a new message. This feeling of calm was how he processed information, and the detective set to typing out the only form of communication he understood.

To: HolmesS_Detective .uk

* * *

From: WatsonJH .uk

* * *

Subject: Last night

* * *

Body:

What the fuck was that, Sherlock? You think it's charming to stand there and watch me undress? I'm going to show you how fucking charming it is, you little cock tease. We're going to go out tonight. Angelo's I think. You're going to sit there and eat a decent fucking meal.  
Wear your coat tonight; you're going to need it, nobody else gets to see what belongs to me.  
Halfway through dinner, you're going to get up and go to the loo. Once you're in there, I want you to go into a stall and start stroking your cock, do you understand me? You're going to sit there and think about the way you were looking at me last night. Did you really think I wouldn't notice, Sherlock? You wanted it so fucking badly. I'll bet I could have walked right over to you and you would have done anything I told you to, I saw it in your eyes, so don't even think about trying to deny it.

You're going to sit there and rub your dick while you think about what you denied me by turning away, and don't you even think about coming. I don't think I'm going to let you. . . it would server you right for teasing me with those little looks you've been shooting my way, the looks you didn't think I would see, the looks you tried so desperately to mask. How many times do I have to tell you, you don't hide anything from me - is that clear?

Perhaps tonight will serve as a reminder. You're going to stop just before you get to the edge, then you're going to button your coat and come back to the table to finish your food. I want to know that your cock is throbbing as you sit there and try to keep a straight face, and I want you to remember that you are mine.

Your Doctor.

* * *

Sherlock pressed the send button, and he made his way to the SENT folder to delete the email he would soon be reading from his blackberry. He took a sip of tea, only vaguely aware of the fact that it had gone cold. Sherlock continued to stare at the computer screen for what seemed like hours, time always passed so slowly for him, before he finally shut it down and returned it to its proper place on the corner of John's desk.

He gracefully made his way across the room and picked up his phone to scroll through his contacts, it didn't take long to locate the correct number before pressing send.

"Hello, Angelo?" Sherlock started, "It's Sherlock."

He paused long enough to let Angelo gush over the detective, and to let him offer his thanks, however unnecessary it was.

"Yes, well… I was just calling to let you know that John and I will be in for dinner tonight. Please have a table ready."


	7. Chapter 7

John stared down at his watch, just two more hours until he could go home. The day had been a welcome distraction, and John was feeling more relaxed about returning to the flat, having convinced himself that he was simply imagining the events that had transpired over the last day. It's wasn't denial, the doctor thought of it more as self-preservation, he didn't have anywhere else to go, and he was not going to throw away a two year friendship based on some fleeting emotion that he may or may not have had towards his flatmate. Sherlock was a fragile man - for all of his brilliant skills and deductions, he was very much an adolescent about most things, and John couldn't risk breaking him, not that he didn't want to, because if there was one thing John Watson wanted to do, it was break Sherlock, but only his body. John wanted to knock him over and build him back up, but Sherlock's soul was something that the doctor couldn't risk damaging. It was far too precious to him.

So John pushed all thoughts of the detective out of his mind and forced himself to concentrate on the set of tonsils he was currently removing from the 4 year old boy before him. He had cauterized the wound and gave a final check of the patients' vitals. He quickly typed up his report, signed the boys chart, and handed him over to the nurse who would wheel him to recovery. The day had been a pleasant change from the chaos of the previous work day, for which John was grateful. He made his way to the corner of the room and shed his surgical scrubs and opened his locker to gather his belongings. John noticed the blinking green light on the side of his phone and knew the awaiting message could only be from one person. He ignored it and started down the hall to his office, only once he was tucked away inside the familiar room did he allow himself to read the waiting text.

_Made dinner plans at Angelo's –SH_

John stared at his screen, and tried to decide the proper response. He _had _made plans to go to the pub with Greg that night, but if Sherlock took the initiative to make dinner reservations, John wasn't going to argue. He had been fighting with the detective about how little he ate since the first day he met him, and if Sherlock eating meant that plans got pushed back another day, well, he wasn't going to say anything negative about it. John quickly opened his messages and typed an apology to Greg.

_Something has come up tonight.  
Rain check tomorrow? _

Sure mate, hope it's nothing  
serious.

_No no. It's just Sherlock_

Ah.

John chuckled as he read Greg's response, if anyone knew what a pain in the arse Sherlock was, it was Detective Inspector Lestrade. The doctor liked the fact that he didn't need to give any further explanation than Sherlock's name, and made a mental note to treat Greg to the first round tomorrow night, as he started another message to his flat mate.

YOU made reservations?  
Someone call the press!  
This is going in my blog!

John smiled as he teased the detective.

_Hilarious, John. I told Angelo  
to expect us at 7pm. If that is  
inconvenient, please let me  
know and I will make other  
arrangements. –SH_

7pm is fine. That will give  
me time to come home  
and change before we head  
out.

_Don't forget the milk. –SH_

John sighed as he returned his phone to his pocket and made his way outside to hail a taxi.

'_God forbid he to go to the shops'_ John thought with disdain as he opened the door of the cab that had pulled up to the kerb in front of him.

"_Two Two One B Baker Street"_ he told the cabbie, and they sped off, leaving the hospital behind them.

John focused on the buildings they drove by, passing in a blur of colours and shapes that could only be made out if you focused your attention on the details. The drive was a quick one, they were only a five minute drive from the flat on a good day, and here they were pulling up to the kerb a mere eight minutes after John stepped into the cab. He paid the driver and walked across the road to the Teso Express to grab the milk that the fridge in their flat was lacking. John had thought about getting it after dinner, but knew he would never hear the end of it from Sherlock if he walked inside without the milk in tow, and John didn't feel like rocking the boat.

The flat was quiet as he made his way inside, and quiet worried John. Quiet usually meant one of two things:

1. Sherlock was in a foul mood and John would be subjected to one of his tantrums, complete with a pity party and lots of sulking.

2. Sherlock had blown something up and had retreated to his room in hopes of avoiding John upon his inevitable discovery of said item that was now no more.

John mentally prepared himself for both cases as he made his way to the kitchen to put the milk away.

"You're home" a voice called out from the sitting room, and a startled John spun around to meet the gaze of a one Mr. Sherlock Holmes sitting on the sofa.

"Brilliant deduction." John sarcastically responded as he gave the detective a once over. Damn but Sherlock looked good. John didn't think he would ever get used to the classiness that Sherlock Holmes possessed when he really wanted to. The man had exactly two looks: There was the usual pyjama bottoms, baggy t-shirt, worn out dressing gown look that John was accustomed to seeing on a daily basis, and then there was the dressed up look, and when Sherlock dressed up, God help the rest of humanity.

John gaped at his flat mate, who was lounging on the sofa with the ever bored expression on his face. Wearing a deep blue button down shirt, that was open just at the collar, and a pair of black tailored trousers to match the Savil Row jacket Sherlock had absent mindedly thrown across the back of the chair, John could only swallow as his exploration of the detective was interrupted.

"You'd best go get ready, John. We wouldn't want Angelo to give our table away."

John laughed "Angelo would hold that table for you for the next six months if you asked him to!"

He was rewarded with a genuine smile from the detective, "I know."

John made his way upstairs, and was just about to enter his room when he heard Sherlock calling from his place on the sofa, "Wear the light grey jumper, John. It goes well with your hair."

Now, John Watson was not the type of man who liked to be given orders (not that Sherlock knew that), but in this case, John did as the detective asked because honestly, Sherlock was much better at that sort of thing he was.

He quickly jumped in the shower, trying hard not to think about the events that transpired while he was in there the night before, and washed away the sterile smell of the hospital. Looking at the tiny clock on the shelf, John hurried to dry himself off and get dressed. He was a man of his word, he had told Sherlock that 7pm was fine to leave, and damn it, they were leaving at 7pm, even if that did mean the ends of his hair remained a little damp.

"Ah, John. I trust you're ready to go?" Sherlock asked as John watched him button his jacket and grab his coat off of the hook by the door.

"Yeah, just let me grab my keys."

"I have mine, John."

"Right. Good. Sherlock?" John started "What the bloody hell are you doing with your coat? It's nearly 80 degrees outside."

"Just in case." was the only answer the detective provided, and the two of them made their way out of the flat and down to the street.

John was at ease with how normal everything was back to feeling. He made conversation about the events of his work day, or something he saw on the telly, and Sherlock wouldn't respond or give any indication that he had even heard the doctor.

"Yes" John thought contentedly. "Good. Everything is back to normal. Knew it was all in my head. Imagination working overtime, that's all."

The doctor relaxed more and more as they reached their destination, and by the time they had arrived at the restaurant, he was more confident than ever that he had once again made the right decision in keeping his thoughts to himself and masking any hint of emotions that would risk Sherlock finding him out.

"He couldn't handle it" was Johns' final thought on the matter before entering Angelo's and finding his seat.


	8. Chapter 8

John stared at the familiar menu, not really reading it. What was the point? He ordered the same thing every time. Glancing over the laminated paper in front of him was more out of habit than out of any real necessity to see what food was actually listed.

"Ah! Hello, my friends!" Welcomed Angelo, as he made his way to the table where John and Sherlock were seated. "What can I get for the two of you? Your usual?" he asked John, who gave him a smile and nodded. "For you, Sherlock?" he asked as he turned towards the detective.

"Just a glass of Chianti Superiore for me" came Sherlock's answer.

"Sherlock" came Johns warning, "you need to eat. Dinner was your idea."

He just stared at John with a blank expression on his face before shifting his gaze back to Angelo. "I'll have the chicken marsala with a side of spaghetti and whatever vegetable you've prepared this evening."

John felt himself smile at the detectives order. He knew for a fact that it had been at least four days since Sherlock had eaten a proper meal, and was glad to see him ordering some real food for a change.

Angelo smiled at the pair as he collected the menus and started towards the kitchen, stopping every few tables to check on the customers. John knew Sherlock couldn't be counted on to offer polite conversation as they waited for their beverages to arrive, so he set to filling the air with idle chit-chat. Asking about his flat mates latest experiments, and inquiring about his overall health, because honestly, Sherlock didn't look after himself like he ought to. For being a grown man, John often wondered how his friend functioned for so long on his own.

The pleasantries exchanged by the two were interrupted by the waitress who had arrived at the side of their table with the wine. He watched Sherlock nod his thanks, and just like that, the woman was dismissed. He kept his eyes fixed on her as she smiled at Sherlock, her cheeks touched with just the slightest tinge of pink as she left the table.

The affect his friend had on women never ceased to amaze him. Furthermore, for a brilliant man, Sherlock seemed oblivious to how women acted around him. Or if he did notice, it never seemed to faze him, as if he didn't care one way or the other, of course John recalled that girlfriends were not Sherlock's area. John often wished he could be more like that, his own experience with the opposite sex left much to be desired. Landing a date had always been a long, drawn out process that required a lot of work on his part. So much so that John would just as soon throw in the towel on the whole social ritual, and he would, if it weren't for the desire to share a bed with another warm body. Wanking was all fine and good, but in Johns' opinion, it was nothing compared to slipping into the heat of another human being. His thoughts were stirred as he looked up at Sherlock, who was growing restless and starting to fidget in his seat.

"I need a case, John." The detective stated as he reached for his glass. John watched him raise it to his lips and take a sip as he closed his eyes and let out a sigh of appreciation as the flavors invaded his taste buds. He took the moment to study Sherlock's' face in that brief, unguarded span of pleasure, and found himself wishing he had been the one to cause the expression. He tore his eyes away from the heart shaped lips in front of him and focused on a painting hanging on the wall behind the mess of dark curls belonging to the man sitting two feet away from him. A watercolour of what John could only assume was Italy.

"Did you hear me?" An exasperated Sherlock asked as John's eyes made their way back to the face that he had left just seconds before.

"Yes, of course I heard you," he answered in response.

"Have you spoken to Lestrade?"

"I talked to him for a minute today before leaving work." John watched the detectives eyes dance at the prospect of a new case and almost enjoyed killing the spark "he didn't mention anything to me about any cases he needed us for."

"Boring. If there is no case, why did you speak to him?" For a split second John thought he saw a hint of anger flash in his eyes.

He shrugged as he answered, not that is was any of Sherlock's business. "I had to reschedule our plans to go to the pub."

"Why'd you have to do that?" Sherlock seemed genuinely confused and John chuckled.

"Because I can't very well be in two places at once, now can I?" He watched as Sherlock processed the explanation ad read the look of understanding wash over his friends face as the weight of what John had just said finally sank in.

"You canceled your plans to have dinner with me?"

John shifted, embarrassed in his seat and gave a quick look around the room, trying desperately to avoid eye contact before answering. "Yeah, well…" he trailed off and watched the corner of Sherlock's mouth lift in a quick smile before returning to its usual vacant expression.

"Thank you" the detective said softly. It was so quiet, John wasn't even sure he had heard him.

He looked up and met Sherlock's stare, hues of blues and greens that he could get lost in. The doctor smiled at his friend as a silent understanding passed between the two men. John was going to take care of Sherlock. Whether it be bandaging up his wounds when a case went wrong, lecturing him about his manners, or making sure he ate properly. It was a realisation that hit both of them almost simultaneously, and an uncomfortable Sherlock looked away. John wasn't offended, he knew and respected the fact that his friend didn't know how to process or convey emotions.

The waitress returned with their plates, and a relaxing silence washed over the table as the men ate their food in the peaceful quiet. John was impressed with the appetite Sherlock was displaying that evening and smiled as his flatmate devoured his dish. He would go days on end without consuming anything, and here he was eating with a vigor that made John happy. Whatever the reason, he wasn't going to question it.

John was absent mindedly moving his food around his pate in a very Sherlock like manner when the tall, ebony haired man started scrolling through his phone. John knew he wasn't going to be given an answer as to what he was doing on the other side of the table, so he simply didn't ask and continued to pick at his food while watching Sherlock's elegant hands tap the screen that was in front of him. He found himself wondering what those long, graceful fingers would feel like wrapped around his cock, stroking him under the table as unsuspecting families and couples dined nearby, blissfully unaware of what was happening just feet from them. John quickly pushed the thought aside and concentrated on eating his meal, glancing over at Sherlock's plate and was pleased to find that he had successfully finished half of his food without so much as a single threat.

John was taking a swallow of his wine when Sherlock abruptly stood, placed his phone in the pocket of his trousers, pushed his chair under the table and grabbed his coat before turning to his startled dinner companion, "excuse me, John. I'll be back in a few moments."

"Yeah, sure" John had barely gotten out of his mouth before the taller man started walking in the direction of the loo, crossing the restaurant in strides with his coat thrown casually over his arm.

John was accustomed to Sherlock's antics, and paid no attention to the detective's behavior. He was used to him disappearing without so much as a word, at least this time he'd promised he would be returning. However, Sherlock moments were not the standard sixty seconds. A few moments for Sherlock usually meant several hours at the very least to everyone else. The man had no concept of time.

John looked around the room as he continued to take small bites of his food. There was a young family with an infant to his left, and a middle aged couple adjacent to their table; he started to study the pair. The man seemed to be in his mid to late forties, with dark brown hair that had started to grey at his temples. He was affectionately stroking the hand of the woman in front of him as he gazed across the candlelit table into her eyes. She appeared to be a few years younger than her date, judging by the laugh lines around her eyes, and the bleached blonde hair that framed her face, he would have guessed her to be in her early forties. John hardly considered himself in the same league as Sherlock when it came to deducing people, but he had picked up on a few things and shifted his eyes to the left hands of both parties and examined the rings on the second finger of each of them. _Married, _John thought, _that's sweet. _He smiled and turned back toward his own table and looked across at Sherlock's plate. The detective had eaten half of his food, _exactly _half. John noted how the chicken had been sliced right down the center, and everything was divided in equal parts on either side of the plate. _Now that's a bit odd_ he thought to himself as he shifted his focus back to the couple he had been trying to deduce moments before. Something struck him as he moved his eyes over the pair for a second time. He investigated the wedding band of the blonde woman _white gold _he noted, her partners was wearing one made of yellow gold. A small furrow formed in the brow of the doctor as the realisation sank in, _married, but not to each other. Sherlock should be here to see this. _No sooner had the thought entered John's mind than he saw the detective making his way back toward the table.

"She's a bank teller, two children, allergic to nickel, and has been married for at least ten years. He's an architect in town for a conference, she isn't his only lover, and his wife knows." Sherlock smirked and eased himself back in his seat, in an almost painful manner.

"Brilliant" replied John as he watched the detective shift in his seat, as if he couldn't get quite comfortable. He continued to study the man in front of him as he ate. He noticed that Sherlock appeared flushed, and his usual marble skin had started to develop splotches of red along his neck, his pupils had dilated considerably, and his breath was quite shallow. John averted his eyes as the man across from him had glanced up and caught John staring. He could feel Sherlock's gaze on him, and out of the corner of his eye, saw the detective reach and turn his coat collar up to cover his long neck.

Sherlock remained silent and finished the remainder of his dinner as John picked at his own meal. "Well this is quite a change" Sherlock stated as he pushed the plate he had cleared away from him and swallowed down the remainder of his wine.

"What's that?" John asked as he tried to ignore the low, raspy tone that Sherlock's voice had taken on upon his return from the loo.

"Usually you're the one lecturing me about eating, and here you are having hardly taken six bites."

"Yeah, well I can afford to skip a meal or two" John scowled "you actually _need _to eat, Sherlock. Remember the case with the missing bride?" The taller man across from him narrowed his eyes "we don't need you fainting in the middle of another case." John had successfully avoided whatever denial Sherlock was about to spout when Angelo appeared at their table.

"Ah! Sherlock! It makes my heart happy to see you eat!" Much to Johns amusement, Sherlock looked uncomfortable and simply offered a forced smile up at Angelo, as if he didn't trust his own voice to speak. "but you, John! Why you no eat? 'Es your favourite, no?"

"Everything was wonderful, Angelo. My mind's just a bit preoccupied this evening, that's all." He ignored the snap of Sherlock's head as it turned towards him. John knew he was trying to deduce what he had just said and put on his best _you're not getting anything out of me _face as he continued to thank Angelo for the lovely meal. "If you'll just bring us the bill, we'll be on your way."

"No charge! You know that! Never any charge for the two of you!"

"One day, Angelo, you're going to let us pay you. Especially when it gets Sherlock here to actually eat, it's worth every bit of money!"

Angelo gave a hearty laugh and said his goodbyes. "You come back soon, eh? You too skinny." He slapped Sherlock on the back as John rose from his seat and shook the man's hand. John turned to follow Sherlock out of the door, trying not to over think the difficulty that the taller man was seeming to have while trying to walk. He took a deep breath and stepped into the humid night air.


	9. Chapter 9

Upon their return to Baker Street, Sherlock retired to his room for the evening without so much as a word to John. He slowly undressed himself, first shedding his jacket and placing it on the hanger he retrieved it from earlier that evening. He then stood in front of the full length mirror hanging on the wall and started unbuttoning his shirt, taking his time over each button as his fingers worked the small plastic circles out of the slits that held them firmly in place. Letting the garment pool around his feet, Sherlock studied his reflection. He had never really paid much attention to his appearance, it was the same face staring back at him that he had seen his entire life. He wasn't the least bit interested in the kind of attention that physical appearance drew. No, Sherlock Holmes didn't care about anyone's opinion about his looks. That is, until John Watson moved into the room upstairs.

Thinking about his flatmate, Sherlock could hear the doctor moving around in his room, directly above him. _He's probably undressing right now_ Sherlock thought, and he felt his groin tighten at the very idea. He let out a shaky breath as he leaded forward and removed his perfectly polished shoes, moving them out of his way with his foot before unfastening his trousers and letting them fall to the floor. Sporting only a pair of light grey pants, Sherlock could clearly make out the erection he had worked himself up to at Angelo's just a short time ago. Pulling the waistband down ever so slightly, he used his free hand to grip his cock and pulled it from its confinement, keeping his balls firmly in place with the elastic. He fixed his eyes on the reflection, studying the organ that his fist was working up and down. Like the rest of him, Sherlock's penis was long and lean. It suited him, and it was one part of his body he was absolutely unabashed about.

Squeezing with a little more pressure, he slowly moved his hand along his entire length, letting his thumb graze over the head when he reached the tip. As much as he wanted to stretch the experience out and enjoy it, he desperately needed to come. He had been on edge since he left the restaurant toilets; every single step he took was pure torture as his coat brushed against his erection, sending tiny shivers down his spine the entire way back to the flat. Sherlock swirled the palm of his hand around the slit, spreading the precome that had leaked out onto the skin and using it as lubrication as he continued to pump his throbbing cock. The detective shifted his gaze back up the mirror to his face and almost didn't recognise his own reflection looking back at him. He had never watched himself masturbate before, and was cataloguing every expression. The normal colourless complexion of his skin had been tainted with smudges of red all along his chest and neck; he found the sight of the bright flush against his pale flesh was causing his balls to tighten. His lips parted ever so slightly and his breathing became erratic as he started gasping for every lungful of air. He was so close; beads of sweat formed on his brow, giving his face a light sheen. He brought his left arm up to rest on the mirror and buried his face in the crook as he fisted his cock. With a final squeeze of the tip, he came with a shudder. Stream after stream hit the glass in front of him and ran down, leaving streaks on the reflective surface before piling on the floor at Sherlock's feet.

He slumped, panting against the steamy glass for what felt like hours before managing to regain his composure. He grabbed his softening penis and wiped off the last drops of semen before tucking himself back in his underwear. Moving to the other side of his bedroom, he reached for the box of tissues on his bedside table and plucked out enough to wipe up all evidence of his latest pleasure. Throwing the now damp tissues into the bin, Sherlock made his way over to his bed and proceeded to stretch out across the expensive grey silk sheets.

He stared at the ceiling and mentally read the e-mail from 'John' one final time for the night. A grin spread across his face as he recalled the first e-mail he had ever sent and what prompted him to do so. Seven months ago Irene Adler walked into the duos life, and while Sherlock felt nothing for her aside from the respect her brilliance deserved, she had provided the detective with some insight to his own desires. He remembered being sprawled across her floor as the sting of the crop she wielded came down on him, the heat that shot through his veins was like liquid fire, and better than any of the highest quality cocaine he could find. The woman herself did nothing for Sherlock, rather it was the feeling of absolute freedom she had introduced him to that he found so marvellous.

"_I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice" _

Sherlock could still recall the look of shock that had crossed John's face, shock mixed with just a hint of anger, and perhaps even jealously that he quickly squashed before Sherlock could really give it the proper investigation it deserved.

The woman had definitely provided him with something to think about, and he would later go online and find a name for all of these new desires. As he read about floggings and safe words, power play and obedience, all he could think about was the man in the next room. He could easily see himself turning over complete control to the only person he trusted with his body and mind. For someone like Sherlock, someone with an ever wandering mind that refused to be quiet, the idea of not needing to _think_ was pure bliss. His brain was forever racing, to shut it off while someone else called the shots for him, would be Heaven. It was later that very afternoon when Sherlock logged into John's e-mail account and tentatively sent himself that first message.

Sherlock had always found it easier to write down what he was thinking or feeling, trying to verbalize his feelings proved to be too tiresome and dull. His no-nonsense approach left people with a bad taste in their mouth because most of them took what he was trying to convey the wrong way due to his voice lacking a certain emotional attachment. With writing he could take his time, he could make use of the extensive vocabulary he possessed, and could say things that he would dare speak out loud. It was the form of communication he felt comfortable with, and over the last several months it had become part of his routine.

Everything had gone still upstairs and Sherlock fixed his gaze on the spot where John's bed was, listening for any sounds that would indicate his flatmate was still awake. Everything was peaceful, and he hoped it would stay that way for the rest of the evening. John's night terrors usually started after an hour or so of sleep. Sherlock looked at the clock next to his bed and noted the time, he would know in around sixty minutes whether he could work on his experiments, or if he would be filling the flat with the soft melodies from his violin.

He laid he head against the headboard and waited.


	10. Chapter 10

John leaned forward and tied his shoe laces, thankful that the day had passed without incident. He got a much needed full nights rest and had a clearer head upon exiting his bedroom, leaving all thoughts of the night before behind him. Being able to relax was a luxury for John, he was usually at the hospital or chasing after Sherlock on some case. Today however, the rare opportunity presented itself to be lazy. He wasn't on the schedule and Lestrade, much to Sherlock's displeasure, didn't seem to need their assistance with anything. So he relished in the idea of spending an afternoon in the flat watching crap telly and surfing the web. Sherlock didn't leave his room all day, at this point this was nothing new to John. He did try to stir the detective with some tea and biscuits, but remembering that his flatmate had cleaned his plate the evening before, John knew it would probably be several days before he would consume anything again.

John rose from his chair and made his way across the flat, pausing outside Sherlock's room before knocking on the door. "Sherlock?"

Silence.

"Sherlock? You in there?"

Silence

"Look, I'm going to pop out for a few hours."

He fixed his gaze on the wood, willing a response from the man on the other side.

"If you need anything" he paused and rethought his statement "if you need anything important text me."

John smiled to himself, glad that the day had taken a relatively normal tone, and made his way back across the flat and started downstairs, pausing just long enough to send Greg a text letting him know that he was on his way before starting his walk towards the pub.

"Over here mate."

John saw Grew waving him over when we stepped inside the building. Pushing through the crowd of people that frequented the place after work, he made his way to the table where Greg sat nursing his pint and where his own Guinness waited on him.

Greg stood and slapped John on the shoulder, not noticing how he winced upon touching the scar under his jumper. The wound didn't bother John anymore, it was more of a reflex than anything else. The two men sat and made idle chit-chat about work, mutual friends, and cases before the waitress made her way back over to the table to retrieve their empty pint glasses and sashayed off to refill them. Putting some extra sway in her step, the two men watched appreciatively as she wondered back toward the bar. John took that moment to apologize about canceling plans the evening before.

"Sorry again about last night" he started. "Sherlock…"

"Ah yes, how is our favorite consulting detective?"

"Driving me mad!" At that, Greg gave a hearty laugh.

"Sorry mate, I can't imagine what he must have been like without a case. I mean, I know how he gets, but you actually live with him!" he started shaking his head "None of us know how you do it."

John thought back to the previous evening. It's true that Sherlock was itching for a case, but he didn't seem as agitated as he usually was this far into the absence of one. Instead, he seemed more or less at ease while at dinner. That is, until his abrupt trip to the bathroom, where upon his return he started behaving a bit odd. Whatever was distracting his flatmate, both John and their wall welcomed it.

"It's not all bad… I'm usually at the hospital most days we're not working on a case, and I have nights like this to get out of the flat."

The waitress returned with their pints, and John took a long swallow, trying to drown out the images he had of his friend. Images of those eyes with the pupils blown out, images of that flush crawling up that beautifully long neck John wanted to wrap his hands around, images of his arse while walking back to the flat...

John was jerked back to the present when he realises that Greg had asked him a question.

"Sorry, what?"

Greg just gave him a knowing smile "I said, it looks like we might need him pretty soon if we can't turn anything up on this new case."

John's interested peaked, he had to admit that he enjoyed working with Sherlock to solve the problems that Scotland Yard couldn't. The thrill of the chase catered to the soldier in him, and these days, not much did that anymore. He turned to face Greg, encouraging him to continue.

"Body turned up three days ago. Young guy, twenty-two, up and coming artist, found him in his flat. Still no leads on what happened, can't find anyone with a motive. I'm going to give it twenty-four more hours before I call Sherlock. Don't tell him though, I don't want him getting his hopes up a then biting my head off if it doesn't come through." Greg paused for a moment and seemed to be thinking about what he had asked John. "What the hell am I talking about 'don't tell him'? He'll know, of course he'll know. It's not like anyone can keep a secret from that man."

John picked up his beer and raised it to his lips to hide his smile. That wasn't entirely true; John Watson had gotten very good at keeping things from the detective. Okay, so really only one thing, but in his mind, it was the only secret that mattered.

The rest of the night passed with ease, and John was grateful. The two men had downed the rest of their beers and ordered two more each before John fought with Greg to pay their tab, and apology for canceling the night before, and walked over to play a few games of darts. John was taking aim when he abruptly stopped when he heard something directly behind him hitting the floor. As he stepped back to look for what caused the noise, he felt something crunch under the weight of his foot. Glancing down, he saw his lifeless phone laying there, the ugly crack right down the middle of the screen told him he wouldn't be getting any further use from it. Reaching down, he picked up the now dead device and turned it over in his palm, groaning he realised he would have to take care of this immediately. That phone was how people at the hospital reached him, it was how Sherlock got in touch when he needed John's help on a case, it was his lifeline. Now here it sat, utterly useless in his hand as he tried powering it on to no avail.

Greg peered over his shoulder and let out a whistle "that's rotten luck, mate." He stared down at his watch and looked back up at John "There's a Vodafone on Oxford Street. They stay open stupid hours on weekends. You can make it if you head out now."

John nodded, knowing that he didn't really have any other choice. "Ta mate. We'll do it again next week." He said his goodbye and left the pub, starting the short walk to the phone shop, being very thankful that he bought that full coverage insurance awhile back. Sure it was a few extra pounds added to the bill every month, but after Sherlock decided to experiment on his phone the last time, John decided it was a good investment. He turned the corner and made his way to the store.

Pushing the door open, he was glad to see that there weren't many people there. Usually the wait was atrocious, and when somebody did get around to helping you, they were in a foul mood from dealing with all the customers before him. He walked up to the counter where a bubbly young woman, barely out of high school, sat scrolling through her phone. Seeing his shadow come across her screen, the young woman looked up and smiled.

"Hi, what can I help you with this evening?"

"I…erm…." John pulled his phone out of his pocket and handed it to the young lady.

"Well, yeah…. That's a problem isn't it?" she chuckled. "Let me get your name and phone number so I can pull up your account, alright?"

In the end, the girl had sold him the latest iPhone, stating that he only had to pay a small fee because the phone he had was no longer being made. She gushed about all the apps and capabilities, and in the end John gave in and handed over his credit card and picture I.D. while the saleswoman powered on the device and was in the middle of showing John the basics of the phones operation.

He was signing the sales slip and putting everything in the bag when the girl popped the gum she was chewing and started "oh, you can also sync it to your email accounts. Want me to do that before you go?"

"That would be lovely. Thank you."


	11. Chapter 11

The work day passed relatively uneventful for John. There had been no emergencies and he only had two minor surgeries. The rest of the day had been spent in his office trying to make sense of the bloody contraption he had been talked into getting the night before. John blamed the four pints of Guinness on that particular purchase. He had been playing around with the damn thing for hours and was still having trouble with it. When he arrived back at the flat after leaving the phone shop, Sherlock was still locked up tight in his room; working on God knows what, so John retreated to the confines of his own bedroom before lying in bed and tapping around on his new phone until the wee hours of the morning where he forced himself to put it down and get a few hours of sleep.

Now, sitting behind his desk, John had internet videos pulled up on his work computer showing him how to add contacts to his new mobile. He smiled triumphantly when the phone screen lit up with names from his address book. Technology had never been John's strong suit, he knew enough to get by, basic e-mails, updating his blog and the like. Nowadays he needed a computer to show him how to operate a computer! People were more and more used to this and it seemed like John was behind on the times, which usually resulted in John shouting profanities at whatever offending equipment he was currently not operating correctly. Taking the small victory of adding a contact to the device he held in his hand, he shut down his computer, confident that he had at least mastered that small task and would be able to do it again. The light vibration in his palm alerted him to a new message and he tapped the green icon.

Sherlock's name was at the top of the screen and John felt himself smile.

_Lestrade asked us to come by  
the station tonight. He said that  
you would know what it was  
concerning. –SH_

John recalled the conversation that he and Greg had while sitting at the table the night before and started to tap out a response to his flatmate. Not having buttons was throwing him off and it took him longer than usual to type out a simple message.

Yeah. Artist, 22.  
Can't find anybody with  
a motive.

_Why didn't you let me  
know? –SH_

Greg wasn't sure he was  
going to need you. Didn't  
want you getting your hopes  
up over nothing. Besides, you  
were holed up in your room.

_When has that ever stopped  
you from knocking, John? –SH_

John had to stop and think about that. Sherlock was right, he had no qualms about banging on the detectives door at all hours of the night, usually to tell him to keep it down or to enquire if he had the fire extinguisher and to beg him not to set the place a blaze with whatever he was working on.

Sorry. Wasn't sure if  
it was going to pan out.  
_  
Obviously it did. The idiots  
down at the yard need us  
there as soon as it's convenient.  
It makes more sense for you  
to just meet me there. I'll leave  
Baker Street a few minutes  
after you leave the hospital,  
it won't take me as long to get  
there, and see you at the  
station. -SH_

That will be fine.

_I know it will. –SH_

He stared down at the screen and could practically see the smug smile Sherlock was wearing right now. John really didn't have a problem with taking orders from Sherlock when it was regarding a case, the man's mind was far too brilliant to second guess or argue with, and John knew that Sherlock was well aware what he was talking about. He had no desire to control the mind of his flatmate, his body however was a different matter entirely.

John looked down at his phone to check the time, one more hour and he would be able to go home, or to the station rather. Having a light work load that day, he was all caught up on patient files and notations. He went back to toying with the device, having stumbled across the 'App Store' he browsed through the available apps, there seemed to be one for everything! He knew that there was a popular game and set to searching for it to fill the remainder of his afternoon.

His throwing birds from one side of the screen to the other was interrupted as another message flashed across the screen.

_Are you leaving? - SH_

It was exactly six o'clock on the dot and John chuckled as he typed.

Impatient aren't you?

_John, you know it's been  
nearly a week since I last had  
a case. Don't lecture me,  
please? – SH_

It was the _'please'_ that held John's attention and he sat staring at that one single word until it went black. His body was practically vibrating with thought of Sherlock muttering those six little letters. He pushed the button in the middle of the phone that would bring life back to the screen and pondered the best way to respond. Settling for a light hearted, joking tone John started moving his fingers across the phone, cursing his big thumbs that were clearly not taken into consideration by whoever designed the thing.

Well gosh, since you asked  
SOOO nicely. No lecture :)

_Ugh. You have resorted to  
emoticons! You've been  
around those dull people for  
far too long today! Time to  
go! – SH_

Yes yes, alright. I'm leaving  
now. I'll see you soon.

He stood up and collected his belongings, tucking a stack of patient files under his arm he made his way out of the office and down to the nurses station to drop them off. "Ladies" he gave them all a polite nod and started down the hall to pop his head into the chief of staff's office before heading out. If this new case was anything like the others Greg needed Sherlock's help on, he knew to let them know he wouldn't be back at the hospital the next day.

With everything taken care of at the clinic, John stepped outside and put all of his effort into hailing a taxi. He stepped to the edge of the kerb and stuck his hand out, waiting patiently as four drove right past him. _'Guess the fifth one is the charm'_ he thought as he climbed into the back of the cab that had pulled over for him.

He gave the cabbie the address to the station and leaned against the seat as he watched the people and buildings go by in a blur. The phone he had placed in the pocket of his trousers made a 'ding' sound and John reached to pull it out, confused by the noise. There was what looked like a red caution sign on the left side and a warning flashed across the screen: UNUSUAL ACTIVITY ALERT

'_What the bloody hell is this?'_ John asked himself _'I haven't even had this thing for twenty-four hours and I've already broke it! Technology one, John Watson zero.'_

He tapped the words and the screen popped up with a new window. As the page loaded, John was still not quite sure what he was looking at. There was a warning across the top that said 'APPLICATION SIGNIN ATTEMPT (PREVENTED)' in red with a clickable map next to it. John zoomed into the picture of familiar street names and his eyes fixed on the little pinpoint that was stuck on 221B Baker Street and let out an audible sigh as he put the pieces together. Sherlock had hacked into his email account again. John had changed the password yesterday while he was playing around online, but apparently after only one attempt Sherlock had figured it out. '_That man has no concept of privacy' _John growled angrily. _'What the fuck is he doing anyway? I'm going to kill him. Yes, that's it. I'm going to kill him!'_

He closed the warning on the screen and clicked the blue app that the young woman had synced his email account to the night before. He sat there going through all of the folders trying to figure out what was so important that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to use his own account. His attention never left the screen and his eyes immediately jumped to the SENT folder when the number had increased by one. He gave the screen a rough tap and pulled up the messages in the outbox. He stared at the most recent activity for only a fraction of a second, not really paying attention to the recipient as he opened the email. As he scanned the contents he felt like somebody had just punched him square in the chest and knocked the breath out of him.

"Holy fuck."


	12. Chapter 12

It was only when John's body started screaming in protest that he remembered to breath. His phone gave a small vibration that was hardly felt, he didn't bother reading the message, he knew it was Sherlock letting him know that he was leaving the flat. _Sherlock, _his mind screamed. God, what the fuck was he going to do? He focused all of his attention on the email on the screen that he was currently holding in his palm, rereading the words that were now seared into his brain.

To: HolmesS_Detective .uk

* * *

From: WatsonJH .uk

* * *

Subject: Good Boy

* * *

Body:

You did well at dinner the other night, pet. You know I noticed how good you were and that you did exactly as you were told. You know how happy it makes me to see you eat, Sherlock. You should do it more often, if not out of any sense of hunger then to please me at the very least. I know you wanted dessert after cleaning your plate; you were so hard under the table I could practically feel the air vibrating with your arousal. You would have loved to go back to the flat and concluded your meal with a mouthful of come, wouldn't you? You do so enjoy being on your knees in front me, the bedroom is the only place you ever give up control, and you love it.

If you continue to be good, then I promise I'll allow you to have it next time. I hope you're paying attention Sherlock, because I'm going to tell you exactly what's going to happen, and if you don't follow the rules completely, I'll walk out of the room and leave you on your knees all night long, do you understand?

You're going to start by slowly stroking my shaft, which will already be hard for you. You're going to gently roll each ball in your mouth before sliding your lips teasingly upward along my entire length, feeling every ridge and vein on the underside of my cock across your tongue. Before you reach the tip, you're going to go back down to the base and repeat the process several times, enjoying every inch of me. When precome starts to form, you're going to slide your tongue across the head and lick up every single drop. You're going to focus all of your attention on the tip of my cock, gently sucking and licking only the first few inches before taking me into your mouth. Make sure you're relaxed; I want to be able to feel myself against the back of your throat.

You know what's going to happen next, don't you? This is the part you love. I'm going to wrap my fists in your hair, I'm going to pull hard enough to make you whimper and moan, and then I'm going to fuck your face, Sherlock. Make sure you keep yourself relaxed; I don't want you gagging around me. You're going to have tears streaming down your face from trying to fight the reflex, do you have any idea how much that sight is going to push me closer to the edge? I'm not going to give you any warning as to when I'm going to come, I won't need to. Cocky bastard that you are, you'll know. You're going to be ready for it, and when I finally explode in your mouth, you're going to swallow every drop. I'm not going to push to the back of your throat, no, I'm going to come all over your tongue and you're going to taste every bit of it, and know that if you spill so much as a drop I will not touch you, nor will I allow you to pleasure yourself.

And you'll thank me.

Your Doctor

* * *

John was at a loss for words as he sat in the back of the cab. He only had a few moments to decide what he was going to do or how he was going to react - they would be pulling up at the station soon and he would be face to face with the man who had just given him a raging hard on. He sat back and willed his erection to go away as he tried to process what he had just read. Was this some kind of experiment? Had Sherlock worked it out and was now trying to prove his hypothesis right? John didn't think he'd given anything away and replayed the last few days back in his mind only to draw the same conclusion he had before, he'd been very careful. So what the hell was going on?

He refreshed the page and the e-mail disappeared. He stared at the phone and rubbed his face as he frantically tried to locate the message. _Fucking phone! I'm going to throw it out of the window, _he thought as he continued hitting various icons. Everything else was right where is should be, not a single e-mail was out of place. Nothing was missing except the message he was just reading, it wasn't in the sent or deleted folders. Giving up all hope of retrieving it, he turned the screen off and returned the device to his pocket. He had no doubts that the message was gone, deleted by the sender before heading out to meet John at the station.

The doctor was used to Sherlock solving problems, so as he sat faced with one, he didn't know what to do. He could confront the man, demanding an explanation, or he could ignore it, pretend that the whole thing never happened. Given his choices, neither seemed like the right thing to do. There was another option, the little voice in his head reminded him, and no sooner than he'd squashed the thought did it pop into his mind again. He had to admit, the idea had more than a little appeal.

The taxi pulled up to the kerb across from the station, after paying the fare and giving the cabbie a rather generous tip, John stepped out into the street with a smile on his face, feeling better about his decision with every passing second. He could make out the silhouette of his flatmate by the entrance of the building - he had his back to him, but John knew that it wouldn't make any difference. Sherlock would be able to tell the second John got close, hell, he was probably already aware of how many steps away he was. As soon as he got within arm's reach the detective turned slightly towards him, and John had to catch his breath. The late evening sun was casting a shadow across Sherlock's face, making every feature that much more prominent. _I really could look at this man all day long, _John smiled as he met Sherlock's eyes. In that instant, John knew what he wanted to do; whatever reservations were left had flown out of the window the second he had laid his eyes on the man in front of him. He kept his eyes hard, never once leaving the other man's. Usually John would get flustered under the detectives probing stare, shifting away from the gaze before Sherlock could pick him apart. This time was different though, John wasn't playing the role of doctor and flatmate, right now he was in soldier mode and he held Sherlock's stare with his own until he saw the faintest twitch come from the detective. Sherlock finally broke the contact and fixed his stare towards the double doors in front of them.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, and John stepped forward to enter the building before the other man had a chance to move, forcing the detective to follow him inside.

* * *

**A/N: I don't know how long FF will let this story be up, I will continue to post it until they say otherwise.**  
**Just in case, this story is on Archive Of Our Own. Same story title and same author: 'Hacked' by SoftPurpleSherlockian**


	13. Chapter 13

**Here's the latest chapter, because I love you guys! Just know that I WAS saving this for later in the week because I am on vacation in Las Vegas until Sunday so I probably won't get around to updating until next week, or if I do, it will be a short chapter. The hubby gets fussy when I spend all vacation on the computer (go figure :D)**

**lol. smiley face. kiss kiss. hug.**

* * *

Inside the security of Detective Inspector Lestrade's office, John allowed himself to relax. The walk down the corridor seemed to take forever, and he could feel Sherlock's eyes practically burning holes into his back. Thankful for the distraction that Greg was about to provide the detective with, he excused himself to the bathroom. John knew that he wasn't going to be much help, and that it was really Sherlock that was needed, not him, so his presence in the office would not be missed, or even noticed.

"I'll be back in a minute" he started, but neither of the men glanced his way as they poured over the case in front of them. John felt a twinge of dejection and turned to make his way out the door. Only when he was safely in the confines of the small bathroom did he reveal any physical signs of the war that was raging just beneath the surface. He walked over to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face as he studied the reflection staring back at him. John knew he had to handle this delicately; he couldn't do anything that was overly suspicious or that would let Sherlock know that he was now privy to the emails being sent from his account. As he started to hatch together a plan, a thought struck him: _how am I going to see the e-mails? I can't keep it open all the time while I'm at work. _There was one option, and John really hated to use it, but the more he pondered his dilemma, the more he realised there wasn't much of a choice. All of the outgoing messages were going to have to be forwarded to a separate e-mail address, and he was going to have to make sure that there was no trace of them being sent through cyber space. He groaned as he dialled the number on his mobile.

"Hello Mycroft. Listen, I need a small favour."

Back in Lestrade's office, Sherlock was still pouring over crime scene photographs. The young artist, Alexander Jean, had been murdered in his flat. Cause of death was blunt force trauma caused by a single blow to the back of the head, that much was obvious, however, the police had yet to turn up a murder weapon and Sherlock had very little to go on.

"I'll need to visit the crime scene", he informed Lestrade.

"Yeah alright, you can go tomorrow."

"No, that won't work. I'll go there from here."

"Look, Anderson's there and I promised him you wouldn't show up tonight. He's still a bit put out about the last time."

Sherlock gave Lestrade one of his rare real smiles as he recalled the string of profanities Anderson had shouted at him as he'd had his ignorance pointed out to him at the last case. There was nothing about the conversation that was particularly different from any of the others the two men regularly exchanged at crime scenes, Anderson had made it known that the detective's presence was a nuisance, and Sherlock stated every single thing that Anderson had overlooked, calling out his stupidity after every missed clue. By the end of the evening, the forensic detective was so embarrassed that he shouted at Sherlock until he and John reached the other end of the street.

"Fine, tomorrow," Sherlock huffed, making sure the inspector understood how much of an inconvenience it was.

He was so tuned to John's presence that even with his back was towards the door, he felt the doctor enter the small space before he heard him.

"All sorted then?" came a question from the shorter man now leaning against the door frame watching the two others work.

"Ah! John, you're back." Sherlock glanced up and took in the sight of his friend casually resting in the doorway and focused on keeping his voice steady before finishing "I need you to go to Donovan's desk and get me the medical report, Molly should have sent it by now. I doubt it will tell us anything we don't already know, but best make sure." Shifting his eyes back to the photographs laid out in front of him, Sherlock willed himself to focus on the task at hand and not on the man five feet away from him. He was doing quite well and was pleased with himself until John's voice came from directly behind him, causing him to internally jump.

"No."

"I'm sorry? No?"

"No, I'm not going to get the report from Donovan. There's nothing wrong with your legs, Sherlock. You're perfectly capable of getting it yourself."

"John, I'm really not in the mood to row with her tonight."

"Then I suppose you'd better behave."

Sherlock felt his nostrils flare and tried to read John's face, a feat that proved to be utterly useless. The doctor's expression remained unchanged and Sherlock couldn't read anything behind the unwavering stare he was receiving. John seemed to be his usual, friendly self, and yet… there was something that Sherlock couldn't quite place.

Greg, who had been watching the exchange, chimed in by saying "I'll just buzz Sally to bring the file in here."

"Nope," John glanced up at Greg. "Sherlock can go and get it."

"John, this is pointless. You heard Lestrade, Donovan can bring it to us."

The doctor, keeping an unreadable face, gave the taller man in front of him a pointed stare before opening his mouth to say "Sherlock, go and get the report."

The detective straightened his back and took a few steps away from John, and found himself heading in the direction for the door, his body responding to the command before his mind even had time to process it. He was practically to the hall before John's voice called behind him.

"And Sherlock?"

He turned to face the doctor, not meeting his eyes and mentally kicking himself for the way his body had reacted. "Yes?"

"Behave."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. He knew that John was referring to his behaviour towards a one Ms. Sally Donovan, but he shivered at the word as he replayed it over and over in his head as he made the walk to Donovan's desk. _Behave, behave, behave._ John couldn't have known how one little word would have affected him so, it was likely that the man was just irritable after a full day at the clinic. The doctor didn't usually mind doing the foot work for Sherlock when they were working on a case, but there were times where he pushed back and made it very clear that he was not the detective's errand boy, days where he was in a bad mood or was having a rough afternoon. Today seemed to be one of those days. Sherlock pushed the thought out of his head as he neared Donovan's desk.

"Hello, freak."

Sherlock gave a curt nod in the woman's general direction. "Sergeant Donovan. I believe you have something for me."

"What do you need with the ME's report?"

Sherlock let out an irritated sigh "obviously Lestrade wants me to take a look at it."

"Well aren't you the lucky one?" came the sneer from the other side of the desk.

He could feel the insults threatening to spill from his mouth and bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood as he swallowed the words back down. He could hear John in his head, _behave,_ and Sherlock's body was fighting against his brain to comply. Instead of telling the young woman exactly what he thought at the moment, he bit down harder and held out his palm where he patiently waited for her to hand him the report. When it became apparent to her that he was not going to indulge her in a verbal sparring match, Sally let out and annoyed huff and placed the ME's report into the detective's waiting hand. No sooner than he had the file did he turn and march back down the hall and into Lestrade's office where the two men were laughing over something from the previous evening. Lestrade was sitting comfortably in his chair with his legs propped up, and John was standing at the corner, hands clasped behind his back as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet and he let out a hearty laugh. He was clearly at ease around Lestrade and Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth twitch up at the scene in front of him.

"Oi, Sherlock. Got what you needed?" Greg asked from behind the oak desk.

Sherlock simply waved the file in his hand. "Right then, we better be off. John?"

John knew better than to push his luck, he had to be smart about this and take small steps. So instead of arguing, he simply nodded his head and gave Greg a polite goodbye before turning to walk out of the office, brushing against Sherlock in an effort to take the lead down the corridor, forcing the detective to follow him out into the London streets.


	14. Chapter 14

**For you my pretties :) Because the vacation time change is messing me up.**

**Body: "Oh, it's 4AM? Too bad! I still feel like it's 7 in the morning and you need to wake up!"**

* * *

Mycroft had been sitting behind his desk, puling another late night when he received John's phone call. He had been anticipating this for quite some time, and to be perfectly honest, was a bit surprised Sherlock had managed to keep his flatmate in the dark for as long as he did. Several responses were prepared, depending on what direction the conversation took.

Despite his younger brothers' opinion of him, Mycroft did have his best interest at heart. When the e-mails first started, his initial reaction had been to ring Sherlock to put a stop to such nonsense, however, upon reading through the first few, Mycroft picked up on the undertone of sentiment that his brother tried desperately to hide. Doctor Watson had proved to be a loyal companion to his brother over the years, and against his better judgment, Mycroft had acted in a very uncharacteristic manor and kept his opinion to himself, not even letting the younger Holmes know that he was aware of the messages existence.

Once the nature of the e-mails became apparent he stopped reading their content, it was blatantly obvious that every message contained essentially the same thing, and he had no interest in the inner workings of his brothers' mind. Once Mycroft knew Sherlock wasn't going to behave rashly he simply kept track of their frequency. As far as he could make out, they ranged from several a week, to as little as one a month depending on the duos case load at the time and how distracted Sherlock was.

Mycroft knew his brother was intelligent, he didn't question that. Sherlock was precise and meticulous, despite all of this, the eldest Holmes brother knew it was just a matter of time before his dear brother got himself into a predicament he neither foresaw nor knew how to get out of. Mycroft had taken measures to deal with a variety of possible outcomes, including the request he had received from Doctor Watson that evening.

"Hello Mycroft."

"Ah, Doctor Watson! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Listen, I need a small favour."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with certain messages you have recently become aware of, now would it?"

"How did you.." Mycroft smirked as John trailed off. The good doctor should be well aware by now that nothing went on in the pair's life that he didn't already know about. "Oh never mind" the man on the other end of the phone started again. "Anyway, I need you to help me out. Any e-mail sent from my address needs to be forwarded to a separate account, and there's to be no trace of the email being sent there once it has been deleted." There was a determination in the doctor's voice that made Mycroft give a wistful smile.

"of course, John. I'll send you everything you need."

"That's it?" a confused Watson asked. "No lecture? No snide comments?"

"No John, however, I do have to ask what you intend to do with this information now that you have it?"

"That's really not your business" the doctor snapped, and Mycroft could almost see him on the other end of the phone chastising himself for lashing out at the man who was offering him his assistance. "Look," John continued after getting his emotions back under control "I don't know yet. Just know that I will take care of him. Can you trust me to do that?"

"Of course John, I wouldn't leave him in anyone else's hands. You've shown an impressive talent for handling my brother where everyone else has failed."

John let out a rather unflattering snort before commenting "nobody _handles _Sherlock."

"Be that as it may Doctor Watson, you have been in my brother's company longer than anyone. I think that says something about your dedication to him, don't you?"

"Mycroft," John was losing his patience with the eldest Holmes.

"I trust that you will look after him, John."

"Good, that's… good."

"I'll send over the information you inquired about as soon as possible."

"Ta Mycroft. I have to go, Sherlock and Lestrade are waiting for me."

"John." Was Mycroft's goodbye as he ended the conversation and hung up the phone. He didn't tell John that everything was already prepared, and all he had to do was give him the login information to the account that had been created for this sole purpose in the previous months. Of course he would get around to providing the doctor with everything he needed, but he had no intention of stopping what he was in the middle of to do so. Besides, John had gone seven months without knowing about the messages, another evening wouldn't hurt him.


	15. Chapter 15

John and Sherlock stood in the tiny studio flat that had once belonged to Alexander Jean. It resembled that of the typical starving artist; the walls were bare save for a few paintings that John could only assume were the young man's own, there was an unmade bed in the corner of the room, and the place smelled of old food from the pile of plates in the sink. It was obvious that whatever income the man earned went straight back into his art supplies. Adjacent from the bed sat a stack of canvases, easels, brushes, and acrylics.

John watched Sherlock turn one hundred eighty degrees to take in everything, not that there was much to see. The doctor set about going through the pile of completed paintings leaning against the wall.

"Sherlock, you know more about this kind of stuff than I do. Do artists usually paint the same thing over and over?"

The detective stalked over to where John had bent down and was flipping through the canvases. Each painting was nearly identical and Sherlock took note of the label on the bottom corner of each painting. J. Hance Art Gallery. He pulled the mental filing cabinet open and tried to place where he knew the name from. _Ah yes_, sixteen months ago he had been flipping through the morning paper while waiting for Molly to get him the lab results on some tests he had run the evening before. On the front page of the social section there was an article about the new gallery opening. The owner was some American bloke who had made a name for himself with pop culture paintings and t-shirt designs before packing up and moving to London to open his own gallery. 'A place for young up and coming artists to display their work proudly' Hance had boasted in the article. Sherlock hadn't given it a second thought since, and was a little surprised the art gallery was still around. Businesses usually came and went within a year, yet this place seemed to be an exception to the rule.

"We're leaving," the detective rose and walked out of the door, making no effort to avoid stepping on the spot where blood had stained the hardwood floor.

"Sherlock!" John barked after him, "my god, have a little respect!"

The tall, ebony haired man turned to say something smart and immediately froze upon seeing the horrified look John was giving him. He huffed out an "oh very well" before continuing his decent down the narrow staircase. John quickly followed him out, taking care to walk around the spot where Alexander had spent the last moments of his life.

A taxi was already pulling up to the kerb by the time John made it outside. He took his place in the backseat beside Sherlock, unaware of where their final destination lay.

"Where are we off to?" He asked the man in the seat next to him as he stared intently out of the window at the buildings rolling by.

Sherlock sighed before answering "gallery", as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and John was daft for even asking.

"Oh of course, _the gallery_. Well when you say it like that, it's _so_ obvious. I'm stupid for not knowing."

"Quite right too."

"Sarcasm, Sherlock." John watched in amusement as the man's eyes narrowed into a half-hearted scowl.

The two rode in a comfortable silence and John tried his hardest not to notice every little move the detective made. He couldn't seem to get comfortable, and John focused all of his attention on the lines painted on the road, watching them pass in a blur as he tried desperately to count them. Anything to distract him from the fact that it had been seventeen hours since he had spoken to Mycroft, and the eldest Holmes had yet to send him the new e-mail login and password. The morning had kept him preoccupied easily enough, Sherlock had been bursting with contagious energy and John found himself moving about the flat, going through his usual routine with more vigour than usual. His flatmate was always in a good mood when there was a case on, and John revelled in it. However, now that he was in the back of the taxi with his thoughts, he started to become antsy.

"Stop fidgeting, John!" You're moving the entire seat every time you shift around," the detective snapped, with an almost pained expression on his beautiful face. The doctor had been unaware he was doing it, and gave himself a mental kick for not keeping his body in check. Just because Sherlock appeared distracted, that didn't mean anything. The man caught nearly everything and John made more of an effort to look as if he wasn't boiling with agitation just below the surface.

Thankful for the light traffic, the two made it to the gallery in a relatively short time. Sherlock exited the cab and walked over to the sleek glass door of the entrance, leaving John to pay the fare. He quickly handed over a couple of notes he'd pulled from his pocket and joined the detective, where he stood impatiently waiting for his friend. They entered the building and were greeted by the posh interior of the foyer, while floor tiles with flakes of glitter gleamed up at them and John felt a small thrill in stepping on something so lovely. The walls were bare, yet they didn't appear empty. The two shades of white they were painted made some sort of interesting pattern that kept the space from appearing too bleak. While John was gaping at their surroundings, Sherlock had made his way to the stainless steel desk that sat in the middle of the room, in front of a narrow wall donning the gallery's name in sleek silver letters.

The young woman sitting behind the cold work space smiled up at Sherlock while John stood back and drank in the sight of her. She was a few years younger than the man currently standing across from her, with striking blonde hair that was swept into an elegant updo. With the fitted two piece suit and deep green shirt, she was the picture of professionalism as she asked the detective how she could help him.

"Hello, I was wondering if Mr. Hance was in at the moment."

The woman frowned slightly before answering, "I'm sorry, Mr. Hance only comes in for exhibitions. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Perhaps you could tell me when the next one will be? I'd be very interested in speaking to him about submitting a few pieces."

The young woman gave him a warm smile before reaching across the corner of the desk and plucking a leaflet off the top of the stack and handed it over to Sherlock. "The next show is this Friday night. We have one every two weeks. Mr. Hance's exhibitions are very popular, every piece is one of a kind and people don't mind spending the money for something special," she said with a gleam in her eye that the detective picked up on right away.

Rising from her seat, she walked around until she was standing directly in front of Sherlock "Would you like a tour?" she asked, and Sherlock gave her one of his biggest smiles, the kind that turns bone to jelly and replied, "that would be wonderful, thank you."

She put her hand on the small of Sherlock's back and gave him a gentle push in the direction of the hallway to their right, "this way." It was an innocent enough gesture, and yet, John could see Sherlock visibly tense at the contact.

Now, John had never seen himself as a violent person, sure he had a temper but he always kept it in check, though right this moment he wanted nothing more than to walk over and pry her hand away from his friend. She was making Sherlock uncomfortable, which was in-turn making John angry. The doctor had long since accepted that his role in their "relationship" was to look after the detective, so it seemed only natural to close the distance between them and place his hand possessively over Sherlock's arm, giving it a firm squeeze of reassurance. He felt his friend go still and then relax into the touch.

The young woman looked back and forth between the two of them before turning an alarming shade of pink and murmuring something along the lines of "please follow me." As soon as she turned and started walking away from the pair, John let his arm fall back to his side and had to bite back a smile as he felt the disappointment practically radiating from the man next to him.

"Er. Thank you… for that."

John gave him a curt nod and started after the lady, but was stopped by Sherlock reaching out and grabbing his shoulder. "How did you know?"

The doctor choked back a laugh, "because I know you, Sherlock. You're mister 'I have no concept of personal space until somebody invades mine'. Besides," he shrugged, "I saw it, your whole body stiffened and you held your breath."

Something akin to pride showed in the detective's eyes. "I'm impressed, John. You observed instead of merely seeing."

"Yeah," the doctor laughed, "watch it or you might be out of a job!" At that, Sherlock gave a lopsided grin and rolled his eyes before walking down the short corridor that lead to an open, spacious room with various paintings hanging on the wall.

John hung back and allowed Sherlock to follow the woman around while she explained various pieces. Ever the actor, John watched him point and nod at all the right times, occasionally giving a chuckle when the situation called for it. As he leaned against the door frame, his eyes never left Sherlock for more than a few seconds, instantly finding him again if he felt he had looked away for too long.

John was torn from his thoughts by the vibration of the phone in his pocket. He felt the anticipation growing in his chest as his thumb swiped across the screen to read the waiting message.

_I apologise for the delay, John._  
_Here is the information you inquired_  
_about._

_Username: CptHedgehog_  
_Password: StrawberryJam_

_I realise how ridiculous it sounds,_  
_however, I thought you would like_  
_as much anonymity as possible,_  
_lest something go askew. I sincerely_  
_wish you the best of luck in whatever_  
_you plan on doing with this information. _

John stared down at his phone with a smile playing at his lips as he flicked through to the next message.

_I've also taken the liberty of forwarding _  
_all previous correspondences to the_  
_account. -MH_

Returning the device to its previous residence, he watched as Sherlock and the young gallery employee concluded their tour and headed in his direction.


	16. Chapter 16

"John," Sherlock started as the pair approached the shorter man waiting for them by the door "Miss Boren here ha-"

"Oh please" the young woman interrupted, "call me Andrea."

"Very well" he beamed down at her. "Andrea has given me Mr. Hance's personal number so I can try to get a piece in the next show." The smile on his face appeared warm to anyone looking at it, but to John there was a message written there yes, I know I don't have anything to submit. Yes, this is just to speak with James Hance. No, don't say a word.

"Right," John spoke up after clearing his throat, "that's fantastic, Sherlock, really great." He gave the detective a smile of his own that said of course I'll play along, but you will tell me what this is about when we leave here. "Getting your work in a gallery could help put you on the next level." John followed the two back out to the front of the building, all the while the phone was practically burning a hole in his pocket. Deciding that he could no longer stand it, he inquired as to the location of the bathroom.

"Oh, it's just down that hall," Andrea answered, pointing to the long corridor on the opposite side of the room. "Second door on the left."

"Ta," John nodded his thanks and started for the loo. Inside the safety of the small, windowless room, he retrieved the device that held the answers to so many of the questions he had. He made quick work of typing in and syncing his new e-mail address using the information Mycroft had provided him with.

**Unread Messages:** 72

Bloody hell John thought to himself as he stared at the screen in front of him. He didn't have much time; soon Sherlock would start to wonder what was keeping him. His eyes scanned the list of messages, stopping on the most recent. His heart nearly stopped when he realised it had today's date next to it. He took a deep breath before bringing his finger up and tapping the screen.

* * *

To: HolmesS_Detective .uk

* * *

From: WatsonJH .uk

* * *

Subject: Plug

* * *

Body:

We're going out this morning, I know how excited you are to finally have a case and I think this will make the day a bit more memorable.

Here's what you're going to do, Sherlock. You're going to go to the back of your wardrobe and get out the box of toys you don't think I know about. You're going to open it and take out that red plug, the one that is ribbed and has the small bullet inside it, you know the one I'm talking about. I want you to go over to the bed and get on your knees, be sure to grab plenty of lube; you're going to need it. Once you get all wet and slick for me, I want you to insert two of your fingers and stretch yourself, spread the lube around for me.

You're going to bring the plug up and slowly start putting it in. You'll be able to take the first half of it fairly easy, love, but the base gets bigger than anything you have used before, you're going to have to take your time. We wouldn't want you hurting yourself, now would we? That's my job. It's going to sting, and you're going to love it. Don't stop, no matter how much it burns, I don't want you stopping until the plug is buried all the way inside of you. The pain won't be anything you can't handle, and when it's deep in your arse, you'll thank me for making you do this.

I don't want you getting any ideas; you're not allowed to touch yourself quite yet. Now you're going to get dressed and we're going to start the day. Be sure to bring the remote, put it on your key ring. I'll let you control the speed, but you're going to have the vibration on the entire time, is that understood? Only when we're home am I going to give you the relief of coming, and I want you to imagine it's my cock shoved deep in your ass as you touch yourself.

Your Doctor

* * *

The e-mail was short and to the point, but the message was clear: Sherlock was walking around with a butt plug, and had been all day long. Furthermore, he had the remote with him right now. John was sure all of the oxygen had been sucked from the room as he closed the message on the screen. His memory had flashed to the taxi ride to the gallery where Sherlock had snapped at him for fidgeting in his seat. It was making sense to him now as it dawned on him that every time he moved, he was sending little jolts of pleasure straight to the detective. No wonder he wore such a pained expression, he was desperately trying to keep his face emotionless. John chuckled as he walked back out to the front of the gallery where Sherlock stood waiting for him.

"About time," the detective spoke up before turning to open the door and heading out to the street to hail another taxi. John followed dutifully behind him as they climbed into the seat of the cab that had pulled up to the kerb. Before Sherlock had a chance to open his mouth, the doctor gave the man behind the wheel an address while he ignored the questioning gaze Sherlock was currently giving him.

"I'm starving, Sherlock. We've been at this all morning, I need to eat."

"Surely you could pick a restaurant closer to home? That's a rather unsavory part of the city, you know."

John shrugged, "Sarah told me there is a great little Chinese place down there, sort of a well-kept secret."

Sherlock didn't say anything, just sulked back against the seat and shifted his weight around. The man next to him turned to look out of the window to keep his companion from seeing the smile spread across his face. Sure, John could eat, but it wasn't a matter of life and death. Besides, Sherlock was right, the restaurant wasn't in the best area, but that's exactly why he wanted to go there. The drive was going to be a long one, one that John had no problem covering the fare for. Their route would take them down twists and turns, and more importantly, very large sections of broken tarmac and pot holes that the city had neglected.

They were halfway to their destination, and still had about fifteen minutes in the cab by the time they were arriving to the stretch of road that John had been hoping they'd take. The tires rolled over holes, sending the car bouncing and the doctor had angled himself to face Sherlock now, drinking in every little expression that crossed his face. His eyes were closed and his hands were knotted in fists at his side as he let out a shaky breath.

"John, I'm not sure why you insisted on driving out this far. We're wasting time; I need to speak with James Hance!" His voice sounded angry, and if John didn't know the real reason behind the snappy tone, he might be taken aback, but seeing as the man sitting within arm's reach was currently fighting the urge to come in his pants like a teenager, John figured he could cut him some slack.

"We're going because I want to, Sherlock." He did an internal dance when the detective's eyes snapped up and met his own. John did an impressive job of keeping his gaze hard when he finished with "that's a good enough reason." With that final statement, he knew the conversation was over and he had won. Sherlock's pupils dilated just enough for John to notice, and he held Sherlock's eyes with his own, the battle of wills had begun yet again. He waited for the ebony haired man beside him to look away, which didn't take as long as he thought it might. A nice flush of pink had kissed the detective's alabaster cheeks, and he turned to stare out of his window. John felt a rush of heat go straight to his groin as the man he found so captivating had buckled under his scrutiny. In that instant he got a glimpse of what it would be like to have Sherlock submit to him, and he loved it.

The silence was broken by a barely audible moan as the cab came to an abrupt stop when a child ran out in the road. John hardly heard the driver complaining about "damn kids", his entire focus was on Sherlock who was gritting his teeth together and John couldn't help but tease the detective a little bit. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"No" the strained response came from the beautiful man next to him, and John smiled.

"Oh sorry, thought I heard something." The two continued in silence as they rolled down the street and pulled up to a building that was clearly no longer operational.

"Well," came the clearly aggravated voice of a one Mr. Sherlock Holmes "that was a complete waste of time."

"Yeah, guess so. Shame."

"221B Baker Street please." Sherlock told the cabbie who sat waiting for instructions.

The duo rode back to the flat, Sherlock biting back moans of pleasure with every bump they drove over, and John pretending not to notice while trying to figure out how exactly he was going to acquire the remote that his flatmate was currently in possession of.

To his surprise, Sherlock handed the fare over to the driver and included a sizable tip without hesitation and nodded a polite "Thank you, I apologise for wasting your time." The driver waved the fare in the air and laughed "not a problem at all mate." John smiled at Sherlock's interaction with the cabbie, letting him know he was proud of his behaviour. The detective beamed wider at the unspoken compliment.

The two approached the door and John gave his trousers a pat as he pretended to look for his keys. "Seem to have left my keys in the flat, Sherlock. Do you mind?" He held out the palm of his hand, not giving Sherlock any other choice but to hand over his key ring. "Thanks" John smiled up and unlocked the door, letting his fingers dance over the small silver and purple rectangular remote with a single button on it.

"What's this?" He asked innocently, and he pushed the button before Sherlock had a chance to react. He watched the detective's entire body stiffen as he closed his eyes and bit his lip.

"Nothing!" Sherlock hissed and quickly snatched the ring out of John's hand and marched up the stairs two at a time, letting himself into the flat without a backwards glance.

The doctor walked up after him, with the biggest smile dancing across his lips as he entered the flat.


	17. Chapter 17

Closing the door behind him, John walked into the kitchen and turned on the kettle just as Sherlock slammed his bedroom door shut. It took every ounce of self-restraint he had for John not to barge in the room, bend Sherlock over and fuck him six ways to Sunday. Instead, he was forced to pretend he didn't have a clue as to what the detective was doing tucked away in his room at this very moment.

As the kettle reached a nice rolling boil, he poured the water into his mug and let the tea bag steep. Glancing at the digital clock on the microwave, he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Less than five minutes had passed since they entered the flat, and though Sherlock was younger than him, the doctor doubted he was finished with his wank in just that brief span of time.

He strode over to the detective's bedroom door, pausing to listen to the soft, breathy moans and the familiar sounds of skin sliding against wet flesh coming from the other side. John waited until the breathing became a little harsher, and then gave a hard knock against the wood. "Sherlock," he called against the grain, "come out here." There was no please added to the end of it, this wasn't a request.

"In a moment, John" came the strangled plea. John hadn't thought it was possible for Sherlock's voice to sound any deeper, but with a blanket of sex shrouding it, the doctor felt his knees buckle under him.

"Now." With that one little word, John could feel Sherlock go completely still in the next room, and felt a sense of triumph. He backed far enough away from the door that it wouldn't be painfully obvious he'd practically had his ear against it mere seconds before his flatmate stepped out.

"What is it?" an annoyed Sherlock asked as he threw the door wide open. The shorter man standing in front of him took a moment to appreciate the view; he didn't even try to hide his lust as his eyes drank Sherlock in. His hair was wild; a mess of dark curls that tumbled across his face and were stuck to his forehead by the beads of sweat formed over his brow, giving his creamy skin a glistening sheen. His pupils were blown; eyes that were usually as clear as the ocean on a bright day now resembled a sailor's worst nightmare, as Poseidon unleashed his fury and turned the blue-green water black. The usual milk and honey complexion of his skin was kissed with angry red splotches and what little of his chest that was visible and wasn't covered by the worn out blue dressing gown that was currently wrapped around his torso. John stood there staring at him, deciding that if he was set on playing this game, he was playing to win. Certain that his expression mirrored Sherlock's, John licked his lips and was rewarded with the blush that crept up into the taller man's angled cheeks.

Clearing his throat, John composed himself. "You said you would do the washing up when we got home."

"The plates can wait, John," Sherlock huffed out, clearly aggravated that he had been disturbed for such a mundane reason.

"No they can't, go do them." John didn't leave the conversation open for discussion as he turned and made his way to the staircase. Before venturing up into his room, he turned long enough to see Sherlock debating whether or not to go back into his room or into the kitchen. Lowering his shoulders in defeat, he headed towards the sink. John smirked before walking into his room, he made a point not to close the door all the way behind him, leaving it open less than a fraction of a metre, just enough for sound to carry downstairs.

He shed his shoes and jumper before flinging himself against the mattress. Wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, he retrieved his mobile from the pocket. The thought of changing his mind had not occurred to him, but if ever there was a time to change his mind, this would be it. Once he went down this road, there would be no turning back. He brought the screen closer to his face and tapped on the icon with an envelope on it that would take him down the path he had chosen.

There were a lot of e-mails to go through and John was momentarily overwhelmed, not quite sure where to begin. Deciding it was always best to start at the beginning, he scrolled all the way to the bottom of the list and opened the message that had been sent seven months prior.

_  
To: HolmesS_Detective .uk

From: WatsonJH .uk

Subject: Test

Body:

I'm not sure why I'm sending this. Perhaps it's because I can express myself better this way, perhaps it's because this is the only way you'll actually listen to me. Either way, here we go.

I'm glad the case is over; I didn't care for that woman. I didn't like the way she looked at you, or the way she was always trying to find some way to touch you. I don't believe in violence against women, but I think I could have probably killed her.

Did you enjoy when she hit you? Did you like the sting of her crop as it came down? Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to be the one wielding it, to be the one to make you squirm? I watch you every single day, and you still have no idea how badly I want you, it's maddening.

What are we going to do about this little dilemma we find ourselves in?

JW  
_

John continued flipping through the messages, absorbing the words on the screen as he drank each one in. As the days, weeks, and months passed, the messages got bolder and became more graphic in their content and John could feel the pressure of his erection pressing against the seam of his jeans, begging to be released. He did his best to ignore it and concentrated on the screen in front of him. Some of the messages were long and some of them were as short as a single commanding sentence. Some of them were harsh, while others seemed to tug at his heart.

_  
To: HolmesS_Detective .uk

From: WatsonJH .uk

Subject: [none]  
Body:

Wear the nipple clamps under your shirt today. The jacket and coat will prevent them from being seen.

Doctor Watson

To: HolmesS_Detective .uk

From: WatsonJH .uk

Subject: Molly

Body:

What the hell were you thinking? How can you continue to be so cruel to Molly? Molly! Of all people?! What the hell, Sherlock? You know I'm going to have to punish you for this, don't you?  
When I get home from the clinic I'm going to bend you over the bed and spank you so hard you won't be able to sit for a week!

You won't be allowed to come.

Your Doctor

To: HolmesS_Detective .uk

From: WatsonJH .uk

Subject: Case

Body:

You were brilliant, love. Really fantastic! I know I told you at the scene, but I wanted to say it again. I think you deserve a reward, after all, it's not every day you solve a quadruple homicide in less than a minute.

What would you like tonight, pet? Shall I take you in my mouth? It's a special occasion and I wouldn't mind getting on my knees for you this evening. Or perhaps I'll fuck you hard and fast, slowing only when you're on the edge, not pushing you over, would you like that? Maybe I'll tie you down and whip you, not with the cat o' nine tails; this isn't meant to be a punishment. No, I'd use the rubber flogger, the one that bites you just hard enough to make you moan.

You decide, I'll be home soon.

Your Doctor.  
_

No matter the content, every message had a common denominator: John in charge, John calling the shots, John inflicting pain. These were all things he would be all too happy to oblige, he thought to himself as he lowered the zip and pulled his cock from his pants. He had already leaked so much that there was no need for lube and he fisted his shaft as he reread the words that told him just how badly Sherlock wanted him. He turned himself to face he door and let his moans become louder than really necessary. He wanted to be sure Sherlock heard him and knew exactly what he was doing. If he knew Sherlock, it would only be a matter of time before curiosity got the best of him. However, he was also counting on Sherlock's submissive nature to keep him from entering the room. John was pleased to find that he didn't disappoint.

Downstairs, Sherlock was scrubbing the mug in his hand. Letting the hot water wash away all traces of washing up liquid, he stood there and pondered how he had gotten himself into this position.

He had been so close to coming, and he needed it. If having the plug buried in his arse all day hadn't been bad enough, he was nearly done in when John had started pressing the button on the remote, sending the vibrations to the highest setting. He'd almost come on the spot and it was all he could do to snatch the remote and head up the stairs into their flat.

Once in the confines of his room, he shed his clothes, the heat in his groin teetering just on the edge. The detective lay on his bed and rhythmically started stroking his cock, playing with the various vibrations speeds. It was much more tolerable when combined with the added pressure of his palm rubbing over the sensitive flesh. Sherlock could feel himself getting closer and sped up his pace when he heard the knock on his door, and when he answered, he was greeted with a look on John's face that he had only ever dared to dream about. It was a look of sheer awe and want. The doctor unabashedly licked his lips and looked Sherlock up and down. It had been clear what he had been doing before he was interrupted, but instead of appearing embarrassed, John remained indifferent to the state Sherlock was currently in, telling him to go into the kitchen before he disappeared into his own room.

Putting the mug on the draining board, Sherlock absentmindedly reached for a plate when he was jerked from his thoughts. The sound was soft, but there was still no mistaking that it was a moan, and Sherlock dropped the plate into the sink before turning off the steady stream of water and listening harder. The panting grew louder as he walked into the sitting room, and was slightly muffled by the time he made it to the staircase. Venturing up the next floor, Sherlock stopped when the floor creaked and mumbled under his breath. By the time he was standing outside of John's door, the groans were frantic. In a moment of boldness, he peered inside and was done for. Not three and a half metres away from him, lay the man that starred at the center of all of his fantasies. John was stretched out across his bed, clothes in a pile on the floor as he pumped his cock in a frenzy.

It was the first time Sherlock had seen the other man's penis, and his mouth went dry. It was roughly the same length as his own, but it was so much thicker. The detective hadn't even realised he was rubbing his own prick until he felt the familiar churning in his balls. Precome that had beaded at the tip of his penis was now starting to trail down his length and his dressing gown was barely hanging onto his shoulder as he matched John's rhythm. He had been ready to shoot off all day long, so it didn't surprise him when he felt himself coming before his flatmate did. He bit his lip so hard he drew blood, but it was a small sacrifice to pay for silence as he brought up his other hand to catch the hot, sticky liquid that was spurting out from the tip of his cock.

He continued to stand there, fighting the urge to sit as his knees threatened to buckle under him. He kept his eyes fixed on the man on the other side of the door, and when he came, he cried out so loud that Sherlock jumped back and raced to the bathroom before slamming the door behind him.

His reflection alone told the story of what had transpired, and his gaze fixed on the deep red blood that had pooled on his lip, a result of his effort to keep silent, and with a twinge of disappointment, he wiped it away. Turning the tap on, he ran his hand under the water and washed away all traces of his pleasure before he brought his fingers up to the wound over his lip and smiled. He would wear the mark with pride, knowing that every time he saw or felt it, he would be thinking about that stolen moment outside of his doctor's door.


	18. Chapter 18

The rest of the day passed with ease. By the time John made his way back downstairs to the sitting room, Sherlock, no longer in his dressing gown, had finished the last of the washing up and was now slouching on the sofa. John could only assume is flatmate was texting by the way his fingers were rapidly moving over his phone. Sherlock quickly rose and muttered something about going out. It happened so fast, the detective was already out of the door before it registered with John that he had even spoken.

As the doctor made himself comfortable in his chair while waiting for Sherlock to return, he pondered the last few days and how quickly everything had changed. Somehow though, the days didn't seem all that different if you ignored the electric charge filling the air whenever he and Sherlock were in the same room. John braced his head against the cushion and lost himself in thought.

Sherlock had seemed so confident in those e-mails, but John wondered if the detective really knew what he wanted. Given Sherlock's inexperience, the doctor was afraid that his friend had an over romanticised notion of what he was asking for. This was the man who sulked for days if he didn't get his way, who pouted when John didn't flood him with compliments, who threw temper tantrums at anything the least bit unpleasant, and John was starting to worry about Sherlock's emotions. His body John could fix, but his heart, his feelings, his soul was something that John didn't want to hurt. Sherlock was such a fragile man, John had to go about this delicately to minimise the risk of emotional damage to the person he cared so much about.

Over the years, John had come to realise that when a person entrusted you with their safe keeping, it included every aspect of their being. It was something that he hadn't fully appreciated when he was younger, and it pained him to think of the harm he had caused to some of his past lovers through his lack of experience. He had been firm and unintentionally rough with the people he cared about, not being aware of all the grey areas in between an arrangement he thought was black and white. However, it was the mistakes of an inexperienced twenty-something year old man that had helped shape him into the person he was today.

The army had helped him get his anger under control, and John had become more aware of the effect he had on the people who put their trust in him. After he was discharged, he found a partner that took him under her wing and helped John to see all the grey areas he had been missing before. It took some time, but he finally had a better understanding about the urges he had and how to exercise them in a positive way, what it meant to be responsible for another person's well-being. It wasn't long after that he met Sherlock, and his life became increasingly more complicated. The relationships he developed were failing, for once not because of anything negative he did. The women he became involved with demanded his attention, his affections, and that was something that he couldn't give them while still being attentive to Sherlock's needs and his pleas for John's assistance. Since the detective had entered his life, the doctor's lovers had provided him with stepping stones as to what it meant to care for somebody else's heart as well as their body. Despite the fact that none of the relationships lasted very long, John was still grateful for an outlet and the learning experience that came with each one.

Which lead him to his current dilemma; how much did Sherlock really want? How much could he take before he broke? It was something that John wanted to find out, yet something that he wanted to run and hide from. Closing his eyes, John thought about his brilliant, child-like friend. It was obvious from the messages that Sherlock craved a distraction, anything to keep his mind from spinning out of control, and John couldn't help but be fearful that this wasn't the kind of distraction he really wanted. Or if it was, that it would be something that was nothing more than that, a distraction. Or worse still, an experiment. There were so many aspects to consider, and John could feel the beginning of a headache start to creep into his temples.

Heading to the kitchen for some ibuprofen to keep the throbbing at bay, John knew that there was really only one way he was going to know for sure. Only one way he was going to understand just what Sherlock wanted from him, and when it finally happened, it would define them. It would change their lives, and John wasn't sure if it would be for the better or the worse. Did the prospect of happiness outweigh the risk of losing a friendship? Was the hope of a partnership with Sherlock enough to shake away all doubt that in doing this John could cause his friend permanent damage?

John didn't want to change Sherlock. He had grown accustomed to body parts in the fridge, to experiments taking up every conceivable inch of the table. John expected Sherlock not to eat for days when there was a case on, or to sulk and pout when there wasn't. These were things that made John care about the detective. Despite Sherlock's e-mails, John had no intention of punishing him for the mannerisms that made him who he was. The doctor swallowed the tablets he had taken down from the cabinet and made his way back over to his chair.

There was going to have to be another way to go about this. Sure, Sherlock obviously craved guidance; John had no problem giving him that. Yes, the detective clearly did not shy away from the idea of pain; John could ensure he received that too. However, the manner in which John handled Sherlock was going to be quite different to what his flatmate had in mind when he typed out those messages. John wasn't going to hit him for any thing he did, he wasn't going to _punish_ him for being who he was, he wasn't going to _change_ a single thing about the man he cared about. Instead, John was going to have to find a way to deliver a blissful, distracting pain and have Sherlock associate it with a positive emotion. He had his work cut out for him and was still trying to make sense of everything when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Rising up and walking to the door, John unlocked it and let Sherlock, who was carrying several large bags, into the flat.

"What's all this?" John asked as Sherlock unceremoniously dropped the bags on the floor.

"Paints, brushes, canvases. Everything I'll need before meeting with Hance tomorrow."

"You're meeting with him? When were you going to let me know?"

"I just did, John. Try to keep up."

"Right. So what's all this about then?" he asked while gesturing to the art supplies.

Sherlock looked at him with an 'I have to explain this to you?' expression on his face. "I told him I was very interested in having him display my work, John. I need to have some work to show him." he stated in his 'this is so obvious' voice.

"You can paint?"

"I could at one point, deleted it. It's just muscle memory, I'm sure it will come back to me once I start."

John snorted "of course you can paint. Is there anything you can't do?"

"Mmm. A great many things."

"Sarcasm, Sherlock."

Sherlock had made quick work of setting up the easel and was setting the canvas up when John stopped him. "Oh no you don't, not without a dust sheet or something on the floor to catch the paint you're going to spill," John said. "Do you have any old sheets laying around?"

"Erm… I believe there are some old towels in the back of my wardrobe, stained purple from the PKP experiment with the fire extinguishers." Sherlock paused and looked slightly uncomfortable before reaching to set the brush down, "I'll go get them."

"No, it's fine. You just wait there and don't let that paint drip on anything, yeah?"

John had only been in Sherlock's room a handful of times, and it always surprised him just how tidy it was. Given the state his flatmate liked to leave the rest of the flat, the doctor found it humorous that Sherlock's bedroom wasn't the least bit chaotic.

Opening the door of the wardrobe, John peered inside. There, in the corner sat the pile of towels, right where Sherlock said they would be. He grabbed them and was about to turn around and head out of the bedroom when a box hidden under the fabric caught his attention. It was a decent size, wooden with a gold trim, and John found himself reaching for it. He wasn't in the habit of going through other people's things, that was Sherlock's department, but something about the rectangular chest held his gaze. In the depths of John's mind he already knew what he was going to find as he cautiously lifted the lid, but even being mildly prepared couldn't stop the reaction his body had upon eying the contents. Inside lay a variety of different sex toys, and John felt his breath hitch as he drank in each one. They ranged from butt plugs to dildos to cock rings all in a variety of different sizes, shapes, colours, and textures. Aware that he had been staring, John tentatively closed the lid and shut the door before heading back out to the sitting room.

"F-Find them?" Sherlock asked, obvious worry coating his words.

John simply waved them in the air, masking every bit of emotion he could and walked over to the easel Sherlock had set up, plucking the paint brush from his flatmate's long fingers as he handed over the towels. "Here, I'll lift this thing up and you can put one of these under it." John raised the easel off the ground, giving Sherlock ample room to slide the sheet under all three legs.

If anyone were to ask John why he did what he did next, he wouldn't be able to give them an answer, but it was in that exact moment he looked down and saw the mess of ebony hair tumbling over Sherlock's forehead as he sat on his knees in front of John. The doctor found his hand buried in those soft curls before he'd even registered what had happened. John wanted to pull his hand away, he really did, but his fingers had other ideas as they threaded through black waves.

Sherlock looked up and locked eyes with John, the unexpected contact made the doctor's nostrils flare and fist tighten against the silk strands, tipping Sherlock's head back and exposing his elongated neck. The detective didn't blink, he just sat there, questioningly looking up at John who was just starting to come to and realise what was happening. Needing to grab a hold of the situation, John let his hand fall to the side and took a step back before clearing is throat and stating "you missed a spot," gesturing his head to the back leg of the easel.

Sherlock's eyes flickered over to the leg sitting on a section of bare floor he had missed in his excitement over his current position, and promptly leaned forward to fix it. "There," his voice came out raspy as he stood up and extended his palm for John to return the paintbrush.

The doctor handed it over, still shaking as he let his fingers brush against Sherlock's. Without another word, John turned and went across the room to sit in his chair, clearly getting comfortable to watch the detective work. John allowed his eyes to trail over Sherlock's body as he started painting, lingering on every little detail, wishing there weren't so many layers of clothes obstructing the rather delicious view.

"Sherlock," John called.

"Mmm?"

"You're going to get paint everywhere."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. That's why you insisted on putting something down, isn't it? To avoid just that?"

"I'm not talking about the floor, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused and angled his head, a movement so slight that John almost missed it. Oh yes, John had definitely grabbed his flatmate's attention with that last statement. "You should at least take your shirt off, wouldn't want anything getting on it."

Sherlock was perfectly still, and John could practically see the struggle he was having just under the surface. "I assure you, it will be fine, John."

It appeared that Sherlock had made his mind up; too bad it wasn't the answer that John had wanted. The doctor decided that the man had entirely too many options, and was about to make it perfectly clear that that's not how things were going to play out. Sherlock didn't get to make the decisions here, and from his e-mails, John knew that his friend wanted the order he was about to receive, no matter how much he would deny it in the light of day.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"Take off your shirt."

"John, it really is fine. I'm not going to make a mess."

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm not going to tell you again."

Even though his back was facing the doctor, John smiled when every muscle in Sherlock's body went still at the command, and his smile grew even wider as he watched Sherlock slip his fingers up to start unfastening the buttons.

* * *

Thanks again to everyone who is patiently waiting and actually reading a WIP. It makes my heart happy.

Sorry it took a hot minute to post this chapter. My birthday was last week (25th) and I was in the hospital with a kidney stone. (Happy flippin' birthday to me)

Anywhoo, hugs to everyone out there who reads this week to week and who encourages me along the way.


	19. Chapter 19

I know I try and post once a week, usually on Friday or Saturday, but last week the hubby and I took an impromptu camping trip, so I apologise about RL getting in the way of updating.

I promise the next chapter won't take as long to post (probably within the next 24-48 hours to be honest)

Thanks to everyone who's following this as a WIP and who encourages me along the way.

* * *

Of course the mad bastard could paint! John mused as he sat back in his chair and watched the image, though he wasn't quite sure what the image was, taking shape on the canvas in front of Sherlock. He focused on the way his friend curled his long fingers around the brush, how each stroke brought life to the colours, how Sherlock appeared lost in the image that was forming.

John didn't know the first thing about art. He never claimed to be as cultured as his flatmate, having come from two opposite backgrounds, but he had a hard time understanding how this was considered art. What lay before him was a combination of shapes and colours that had no rhyme or reason. Still, John was a gentleman at heart and he didn't want to insult Sherlock, especially after the awkward exchange that took place while setting the easel up. He muttered something along the lines of "lovely" or "very nice" which only earned him a snort from the taller man in front of him.

"There's no need to lie, John. I can hear it in your voice. Not to worry," Sherlock rambled on without turning to face the doctor. "I'm not offended. It's absolutely atrocious, a disgrace to the masters to classify this as art!" The detective sounded disgusted and John was wholeheartedly confused.

"Right. So let me get this straight. You actually painted something that ugly on purpose?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "The paintings in Alexander Jean's flat all appeared to be modern art." You could hear the distain dripping from his words as he forced himself to call what they had seen in the victim's flat art. "This was as close to the manner I could replicate. Clearly Hance is drawn to this type of style. The pieces themselves are of little to no consequence, but Hance does appear to stick with what he likes.

John threw his head back and laughed. Of course Sherlock had been twenty steps ahead; he always was with a case. Clearly he had worked something out that he had yet to share, but John could wait. He enjoyed seeing Sherlock in his element, and it was a lot better than the sulk he would be having if they had nothing else to do. "You're absolutely brilliant."

Sherlock turned to smile at John, "now that one, I do believe" and beamed at the compliment.

John grinned as he made his way into the kitchen to start on dinner, which consisted of heating up leftovers. He turned the microwave on, thankful there were no surprises hiding inside when he opened it, and waited for their food to warm up. Ever looking after Sherlock's well-being, he dutifully piled a generous helping of Chinese onto two plates, hoping that Sherlock would tear himself away from his project long enough to take a few bites.

John balanced both plates and walked back into the sitting room, where Sherlock was setting up yet another blank canvas. "Sherlock?"

"Not now, John."

"Yes now. You haven't eaten all day, you know you haven't."

"I'll be fine for a few more days."

"Nope." John was getting increasingly annoyed, although there really wasn't anything surprising about the exchange. The detective rarely ate when he was working and John shouldn't be as put off as he was. Given the change in the nature of their relationship, however one sided it was at the moment, John had a strong moral obligation to take care of the man who was, very soon, going to be trusting him with his body completely. Trying another tactic, one that aimed for more of a positive response, John lowered his voice. "Please, Sherlock? It would make me happy to see you eat."

Without a word, Sherlock walked over to the sofa and plucked the plate away from John, forcing several forkfuls down before pausing to look down at the doctor.

John simply nodded his head and rose to retrieve the plate from Sherlock's outstretched hand.

"Anything else?" Sherlock asked.

He was really making this too easy, and John smiled as he locked eyes with his flatmate. Deciding that a lighthearted approach was probably in his best interest at this point, he let out a small chuckle, "yeah, you can say thank you for taking care of me and making sure I don't starve to death, John." John watched closely, he wasn't the detective that Sherlock was, but even he couldn't miss the glassy expression that washed over the face of the man standing I front of him.

"Thank you for taking care of me, John." Sherlock replied, his already deep honey voice taking on a more breathy tone that went straight to John's cock.

The doctor grinned up at Sherlock and answered "it's my job," before walking back into the kitchen to place the dirty dishes in the sink, leaving Sherlock to ponder the the meaning of that statement alone in the sitting room.

The sound of the shower running could be heard downstairs, and Sherlock tried to will the images of John standing under the spray out of his head. His flatmate, having washed up the dishes, retreated to the bathroom, as he did every night before turning in.

The detective stared at the blank canvas in front of him, urging his fingers to move and bring some sort of life to the vast emptiness before him. The knowledge that he needed to complete these pieces tonight did little to ease or inspire him to produce anything on the textured paper. He was far too distracted to think about the task at hand.

True, Sherlock had very little experience with relationships; he preferred a theoretical approach to such things. Still, even he, with his limited knowledge, knew that something had transpired within the last few days in the dynamics of his and John's unconventional partnership. Retrieving the Blackberry from the pocket of his trousers, Sherlock signed into John's account without so much as glancing at the keys. Looking over everything helped calm him down some. Nothing seemed out of place, and all of the folders were empty of any incriminating evidence. The only thing Sherlock had to go on was the possessiveness that had swept over John in the gallery when that girl, whatever her name was, had been unabashedly flirting with him. John stepped in when she had touched Sherlock, and the detective quite enjoyed it.

A plan had formulated regarding the case and Sherlock hadn't given the exchange a second thought, instead, tucking it away where he could properly analyse it later and give it the focus it deserved. That was, until the detective had found himself on his knees looking up at John earlier that very afternoon. That had captured Sherlock's attention, and he still stood shirtless in front of the easel as a result of the exchange.

The shower had been turned off, and Sherlock willed himself to produce anything on the canvas. Bringing the brush up, he swept it across the textured surface in one fluid movement, not caring what the end result was. The painting he came up with this evening had little to no merit on the actual case, he just needed a reason meet with Hance. Whether the gallery owner decided to display anything was not his main concern.

By the time John padded barefoot out of the bathroom, Sherlock had succeeded in adding several more lines and splashes of colour here and there, not really caring what the finished product looked like at this point. The heat being emitted from John's body was enveloping Sherlock as he felt the doctor standing behind him to glance at the progress that had been made.

"That's ghastly."

"Mmm, I'm glad you agree."

"Why not paint something else then?"

"We've been through this. This is the style that Hance apparently likes. Besides, anything more elaborate isn't worth my time."

John merely made a sound of acknowledgement and stalked into the kitchen for his cuppa before bed. He was a creature of habit, his John and Sherlock welcomed the familiar sounds stirring from the other room.

When the doctor emerged, he was carrying two mugs. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye as he sat one of them on the corner of the end table, just within Sherlock's reach without a word and then turned to head upstairs. Facing Sherlock before he entered his room he said "G'night. Wake me in plenty of time to get ready without me needing to rush."

"Of course."

"And don't stay up all night, Sherlock. Seriously, at least try to grab a few hours of sleep, yeah?" John turned and walked into his room without a backwards glance and closed the door behind him.

Without his flatmate's looming presence invading his senses, Sherlock tried again to focus on the task that lay in front of him. Content that he had enough rubbish smeared on the canvas in front of him to pass as "art", he took it off the easel and leaned it against the wall to dry before reaching down to produce another blank one and set it up.

The detective took a moment to marvel at the emptiness of it. As if it had a life of its own, it stared back at him, full of potential and hope. In that brief span of time Sherlock felt several pointless emotions wash over him at once, and he tried desperately to ignore them. They served no purpose here and were only delaying him from what he should be doing. Instead of slapping some paint on it and calling it a day, he found himself looking at the blank canvas like a dewy eyed school girl.

Tentatively he brought the tip of the brush to the paint and dipped it in, He allowed the bristles to take on a soul of their own as they swept moved across the canvas. Sherlock had so many feelings running through him, and at the heart of every one was a single word: John.

He allowed himself to bask in the emotions as he continued to paint, repeatedly returning the brush to the acrylics he had laid out before him. The piece was beginning to take shape, though it still had a long way to go. Sherlock could see it in his head; a warm cave, safe from the harsh London rain that lay just outside the entrance. Inside the safe harbour was bursting with warmth; hues of reds, oranges, and golds. The feeling of security trying to burst through the colours and convey every emotion painted there. Just beyond the doorway was cold and ugly. Blues, blacks, and greys that wanted to cut through you. All of the harshness and cruelty lay just beyond the threshold, but inside, inside was purely John. Warm, inviting, secure… safe.

Sherlock painted it as he saw it in his mind; a fortress of love that succeeded in keeping away all of the hurt that the outside world threw his way. In every stroke of red there was the wool of one of John's jumpers. In every brown or gold lay the hint of John's favourite tea. The oranges of the flowers in bloom were the exact shade of the worn out medical books that lined their bookshelves.

Subconsciously Sherlock had been melding himself into the painting without realising it as well. When he took a step back to admire his work, he noted the deep chocolates favoured the shade of his violin, and that the earthy hues of the moss resembled the slides under his microscope in the kitchen. Their life, his and John's, woven together seamlessly in an array of colours and textures that protected them from the bitterness of the world beyond the sanctuary they built together.

The sun was rising and London was waking up in the streets below, yet Sherlock remained aloof to this fact, concentrating on the finishing touches of the scene he had been working on all through the night. Only when he was satisfied that it was perfect did he sit the paintbrush down and step away from the easel.  
He could hear John stirring upstairs, the noises from the streets below wrestling him out of his slumber. Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and paused outside of his flatmate's bedroom door before bringing his fist up to knock against the wood. "John," he called. "John, you should probably get up now."

A muffled groan came from the other side and Sherlock could hear the sleepy steps drag across the floor, moving closer to where he stood. The door separating the pair had opened, and John peered up at Sherlock. As his friend rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the detective took the opportunity to look at him and smiled at the sight. The shorter man was missing a sock, lost among the blankets and his plaid pyjama bottoms were twisted at the waist, making the seam run along his thigh. The rumpled grey shirt was wrinkled and had a crease that matched the one on John's right cheek. His hair was in complete disarray as it stood straight out on the left side and was flattened against his skull on the right. Sherlock gave a small but hearty chuckle before asking, "I trust you slept well?"

"Sh'up 'Lock," came the groggy response of his doctor, which made Sherlock smile even wider.

Composing himself, Sherlock watched as John straightened up and eyed the taller man in front of him. Upon seeing the bare chest and the paint speckled trousers, he frowned. "You didn't sleep."

Sherlock at least has the good sense to pretend to be embarrassed, after all, John had asked him to do something that he ignored, but he didn't have time to worry about that right now. He simply shifted his weight and angled his body so that John could follow his gaze downstairs where the easel sat. "Yes, well… As you can clearly see, I've been a bit busy."

John brushed past him and went down the stairs to stand in front of the painting. "Sherlock," the detective watched him turn to stare up at him and follow his movement as he made his way to the sitting room and came to stand next to John, "Sherlock," he started again. "This is amazing."

"You think so?" The detective asked, please that John apparently appreciated the piece he had spent the last several hours working on. He hadn't realised how much he craved John's approval until he actually had it, and he was elated.

"Absolutely, quite remarkable. Seems a shame to turn it over to that Hance fellow."

"Oh no, John. This piece isn't for Hance." Struck with a realisation, Sherlock frowned. "However, that does leave me with a slight problem."

John looked up at Sherlock and waited for him to elaborate.

"James Hance is expecting three pieces and obviously there are…" He trailed off as he carefully removed the still wet painting off the easel and set it down to finish drying before replacing it with another blank slate.

Quickly he dipped the biggest brush he had into the deepest red paint and took a step back. Sherlock raised his arm up over his head and brought it down with such speed that the paint in it splattered across the canvas in a way that reminded both men of some of the more grotesque crime scenes they visited together.

"There," Sherlock said and smiled down at John. "That takes care of that. Three paintings finished and ready to show." The detective clasped his hands together before continuing. "Well, we should probably get ready. We're supposed to meet him in just over an hour." He watched John nod and turn to head back up to his bedroom. "Oh, John? I should warn you that Hance is under the impression that you're my, for lack of a better word, boyfriend. As such, dress accordingly, will you? Something that says you don't get dressed in the dark.' Sherlock turned back around as if the sentence that had just left his mouth had been the most normal thing in the world.


	20. Chapter 20

If Sherlock had been expecting some sort of outburst from John, he was sadly mistaken. The doctor, wanting to make sure he'd heard correctly, simply straightened his back and turned at the top of the stairs. "Sorry, your _what_?" he asked in a calm tone.

Sherlock rocked back on the heels of his feet and let out an irritated sigh, "or partner if you prefer."

John continued to stare at the detective with a blank expression on his face.

"Honestly, John. You're the reason we're even in this predicament in the first place."

The doctor shook his head, bewildered as to how this was somehow his fault. "Come again?"

"Did you or did you not give that woman at the gallery the distinct impression that you and I had more than a working relationship when you stepped in and grabbed me?"

John thought back to the events of the previous day and groaned, his possessiveness had indeed landed them in the situation they were currently facing, but damn if seeing that pretty blonde touching Sherlock hadn't set his teeth on edge.

"As such," Sherlock continued, "I can only assume she told Hance to expect both of us, seeing as his message suggested as much."

John closed his eyes; this was going to be a long day. His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock.

"I'm sorry the notion is so appalling to you, John." Sherlock's voice had taken on a sneering tone that John had come to recognise whenever his friend lashed out in anger. "Apparently I incorrectly assumed you would be amendable to the arrangement for the sake of the case. I apologise." The doctor watched as Sherlock fumbled for his phone. "I'll text Hance and let him know that it will just be me today."

Racing down the stairs wasn't even something John was aware he had done until he was looking up at the blue/green eyes of his friend. "No, Sherlock. It's fine, it's all fine. You just surprised me, that's all. We can't all process stuff as quickly as you, you know." The lines on Sherlock's face softened as John continued to speak. "I just needed a minute to wrap my head around the idea, yeah?"

The doctor watched as Sherlock's eyes searched his own. Content that he had found what he was looking for, the detective nodded and turned to his own room to get ready.

A million thoughts rushed through John's head as he watched his friend walk across the room. He was clearly upset, though he would deny it if asked, and John felt the guilt wash over him, knowing that he was the cause of the detective's state.

"Sherlock?" he called and watched as the taller man paused outside of the door, his arm outstretched and fingers curling around the handle.

"Mmm?"

"The idea isn't appalling."

The ebony curls tumbled forward as Sherlock gave a curt nod before retreating into his room. John felt a smile tugging on the corners of his lips and followed suit, wondering what he was possibly going to wear that would complement his pretend lover.

The cab ride to the café was a pleasant one. There was no idle chit-chat, no rehearsing or hashing out details of their would-be relationship like John thought there would be, instead, a comfortable silence filled the air as they rode together in the quiet. John was absentmindedly playing with the buttons on the cuff of the shirt he was wearing. The long sleeved light blue button up was under a grey waistcoat that he kept buried at the back of his wardrobe. It was that moment Sherlock turned to face the smaller man and said, "Stop fidgeting, John. You look fine. Good." He cleared his throat, "You look good."

John smiled as he noted the small twinge of pink creeping up the cheeks of the man next to him. "Thanks, gotta make people believe that someone like you would go for someone like me, eh?"

Before Sherlock could argue, the taxi was pulling up to the kerb. Sherlock shifted in his seat and averted his eyes. "John, we should probably discuss…"

The doctor cut him off, "Just let me handle it, alright?"

A small frown formed on Sherlock's mouth and his brow furrowed.

John locked eyes with the detective. "Do you trust me, Sherlock?"

"Of course," the man answered without hesitation and John grinned as his heart clenched.

"Alright. Good. So let me worry about everything, okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You just be brilliant and do whatever it is you need to do with Hance."

Again, Sherlock nodded his understanding and John felt something stirring deep within him as his eyes drank in the man sitting within arm's reach.

'Yes, John,' The doctor said, never letting his eyes leave Sherlock and watched the look of confusion pass over his beautiful features. John elaborated, "if we're going to pretend to be in a relationship, we're going to have to do it the only way I know how. Don't say too much, and for the love of God don't be clever! Best if you just talk when Hance asks you a question. Just let me take the lead, yeah?" John asked apprehensively, still testing the waters and seeing how far he could push this.

"Yes, John," came the immediate response and the doctor's heart gave a leap at Sherlock's willingness, though he really didn't expect anything less.

"Good."

The pair exited the taxi after Sherlock paid the fare, and once John came to stand alongside the detective, he wove his fingers through the hand that wasn't carrying the large canvases and he felt his friend tense at the contact. "Trust me." John gave his fingers an affectionate squeeze and used his free hand to pull open the café door. Reluctant as he was to do so, he loosened his grip from Sherlock's so he could usher the taller man into the building through slight pressure at the small of his back, feeling no guilt what so ever about allowing his fingers to graze over the fabric of Sherlock's jacket. John decided he was going to enjoy this very much.

The two stepped into the building and John looked around. The place was small, but decorated in a way that gave the illusion it was bigger on the inside. There were only a handful of tables that were occupied and he felt oddly relieved at the quaint charm the business possessed.

In the far left corner, at the table against the window, a man rose and started making his way over to the duo, still standing just inside the doorway. As the gentleman approached, John took in his appearance. He looked to be close to John in age, mid to late thirties, with a prominent dark brown goatee and a couple days' worth of growth that gave him a thin beard across his cheeks. He was dressed down in a tee shirt and pair of jeans with faded shoes. Overall, he looked stereotypically American. How else could the gallery owner think it was acceptable to dress that way in public?

Still, John kept his opinions to himself and when the man reached them the doctor was polite and extended his hand, offering a greeting before Sherlock had a chance to open his mouth. John didn't quite know what information the detective was looking for, but he wasn't going to let him insult the man before even saying hello and blow the case. "John Watson," he said as he grasped the man's callused hand. "James I presume? You've already spoken to my Sherlock here." John said while gesturing to the man standing dutifully at his side.

"Yeah, I have. What's up man?" James asked and extended his fingers in Sherlock's direction.

The detective gave him a polite handshake while continuing their introductions. "Mr. Hance, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Call me James."

Sherlock nodded. "James. Shall we?" He tilted his head back towards the table their suspect rose from.

"Absolutely," came Hance's reply and he turned to walk back to his seat.

Even though his back was turned and he couldn't see them, John took Sherlock's hand in his own and led him through the café. Admittedly, he enjoyed the feeling of Sherlock's fingers intertwined through his.

The three men took their seats and Sherlock tucked the paintings between his and John's chairs, propping them up with the legs.

"I can't tell you how excited Sherlock was to hear from you. Isn't that right, love?" The doctor looked up at his friend who was sitting still as a statue.

"Yes, John."

"Not a problem. Andrea's always keeping her eye open for new talent on my behalf." Hance replied, nodding in Sherlock's direction "and I think she might have had a little crush on ya." The man let out a small laugh "Too bad for her though, huh?"

John smiled and threw his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Their height difference made it slightly awkward, but neither man seemed to mind. "Too bad indeed," John laughed with Hance. "I'm a tad possessive and I'm afraid I don't share." The doctor made no apologies for the blush that was crawling up Sherlock's face, and instead shrugged his shoulders while maintaining the low chuckle rumbling from his throat.

"So" Hance said, getting straight to the point of their meeting, "show me what you brought, Sherlock."

John was impressed that Sherlock didn't immediately reach for the canvases; instead he turned to face the doctor before moving at all towards the paintings.

John gave a small nod of approval, only then did the detective grab the pieces he had tucked away between them. John watched as he passed them across the table to the gallery owner, a blank expression was on Sherlock's face. As Hance studied the paintings, Sherlock was studying him.

Taking the opportunity in the silence, John took his free hand and started drawing little circles on Sherlock's thigh while massaging his neck with the hand he had thrown over his shoulders only moments before.

Hance held up the painting that Sherlock had done that morning. It was the one that had literally been done in five seconds with a single splatter of the brush coming down through the air. "This!" Hance exclaimed excitedly. "This is fucking amazing! The energy, the emotion! You can really tell there was a lot of feeling poured into it. This, this is true art."

The doctor could feel the insults burning through Sherlock, threatening to spew from his lips at any second. John did the only thing in his power to do at the moment. He took his fingers and squeezed the back of Sherlock's neck. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm.

"That's exactly what I told him, James." John matched the enthusiastic tone of the artist sitting across the table. "He almost didn't bring that one, you know, didn't think you'd appreciate it."

"Nah, man, it's perfect. You can really feel the passion that went into it!" Hance babbled on incessantly about Sherlock's unique vision and his artistic ability. With every word that left Hance's mouth, John could tell Sherlock was becoming increasingly annoyed. The doctor could practically hear the man next to him _'but John, it's an absolute disgrace to real art. How can this imbecile have an artistic bone in his body? Botticelli is probably turning in his grave at this very moment.'_ He squeezed Sherlock's neck harder and could see the detective fighting to keep still.

"I'm glad you like it." Sherlock finally said, and John rewarded him with a small pat on the thigh.

"Alright, so yeah. The show is on Friday night at six and I'd really like to put this one up. Of course you understand that I'll pick what I think is a fair price, and it goes without saying that I'll get a percentage of whatever the piece goes for."

It was John who spoke up for Sherlock. "Of course. We're just excited to find someone willing to take a chance on a new name."

Sherlock appeared unaffected and John needed to make him at least pretend to be excited to hear his work was going to be displayed in a professional gallery. The smaller man, feeling confident that Sherlock wanted it to happen, didn't give a single thought to what happened next. His hand, still around Sherlock's neck, gave a gentle tug and brought the detective's face level with his own before crushing their lips together in an all too quick, searing kiss.

When they parted, Sherlock was looking into John's eyes for answers. The doctor smiled up at him, "all of it's finally paying off, love. Doesn't that make you _happy_?" Putting emphasis on the last word, and Sherlock quickly caught on, understanding sweeping over his face.

He gave the biggest, most fake smile imaginable and turned to James "I can't thank you enough for this opportunity."

"Sure thing man. Everyone's gotta start somewhere, right?" reaching into the pocket of his jeans, Hance produced two slips of white paper. "Here are the tickets to Friday's show. I'll see you then." The gallery owner was nearly to the door before he turned. "Hey, Sherlock? What do you call this piece anyway?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth lifted into a genuine smile "I call it: _Ode to Anderson"_

At that, John let out a laugh he had been containing since the pair sat down. The detective flicked his eyes over to the doctor and smirked, knowing that John was the only other person who would have appreciated it.

As soon as James Hance was out of the building and well down the road, John turned, looked up at his friend, and did his best impersonation of the gallery owner. "Man, you really got vision! So many feelings went into this!" The two burst into a fit of giggles and John continued, "I wonder what that poor bloke would think if I told him you just, literally threw some paint at the canvas?"

Sherlock gave him a sheepish, toothy smile but didn't respond. He was too enamoured with John's hand still resting on his leg and making no effort to move.


	21. Chapter 21

The evening of the art show was upon them. John was busy getting into the suit that Sherlock insisted he wear when he heard his phone vibrate against the bedside table it lay on. Pulling the zip up on his trousers, he walked across the room to retrieve it, half expecting the alert to be a text from Harry. It had been several days since Sherlock had sent him a new e-mail, but John's breath still hitched every time the device signalled a new alert.

Sherlock had been locked away in his room for most of the night, giving him ample time to compose a message pertaining to the evening's festivities. The doctor had been anxiously waiting for the next message, and now that it was in his hand, he felt giddy. There, just at the bottom, was the little blue and white icon with a number one that made John's heart flutter as he looked at it.

He took a deep breath, not fully knowing what to expect as he tapped the icon and brought up the screen with his inbox. Would it be a harsh and fast request? Or would it be a softer plea, filled with the whisper of soft promises that went unspoken, never being acknowledged out loud, but that lingered just below the surface? John brought his finger up and clicked the message that had been sent less than two minutes ago given the time stamp next to the subject line.

Skimming the contents, a smile played at his lips as he closed the app and set to finish getting dressed. Tonight held all the promise in the world, and was just the opportunity that John needed to finally get things moving along. True, he had been dropping little hints here and there, but tonight he pulled out the big guns. Part of him was elated, the other part was so anxious that he wanted to vomit. _This is going to happen_, he thought and walked out of his bedroom before he could change his mind.

Sherlock was waiting for him in the sitting room, and John had to will himself to look anywhere except the man on the sofa as he focused on making it down the stairs without falling on his face. The detective was wearing a well-tailored suit that fit him like a glove. It was solid black and worn over a crisp white shirt with black buttons, and the outfit was completed with a matching ebony bow tie which, of course, was tied perfectly.

"Ah, good. You're ready." Sherlock rose without a word from John and made his way to the front door without so much as a backwards glance.

"Sherlock?" John didn't wait for the detective to acknowledge his question, instead he continued right along. "Are we going to… I mean, do we have to… Shit. Are you and I together tonight?"

"Of course we're together, we're going, arriving, and leaving in each other's company, are we not?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

Sherlock turned to look at John who was wearing an amused smile as he waited for the detective to respond, "yes, people are still under the assumption that you and I are romantically involved."

"Right. Good. Just making sure so I know how to behave." John had opted for 'behave' rather than 'act' because for him it wasn't, and tonight Sherlock would realise that. "Should we be off?"

The event was in full swing by the time the duo arrived. It was an elegant affair, far more so than John was expecting given it was merely an art show. However, if there was one thing he was sure about it was that when people had money to spend, they liked their extravagant parties and excuses to parade around all but shouting 'look at me, see how wealthy I am?'

John was still out of his depth when it came to things like this, but had attended enough of Mycroft's events with Sherlock to feel like he at least knew how to behave without making a complete arse of himself.

Lost in thought, the doctor realised that Sherlock was no longer at his side and had a split second of panic. It wasn't that John needed him, he just felt more comfortable knowing where his friend was, however, John had long since accepted that Sherlock was going to be Sherlock. This included dashing off without a second thought to those around him.

It wasn't difficult to spot him; he stood a good head above most of the crowd. John quietly watched his friend, very much in his element, chatting with one of the servers balancing a tray of champagne. Sherlock laughed at something the man said as he plucked two glasses off of the tray then started making his way back where John stood waiting. About half way across the room, the two locked eyes and Sherlock gave a smile that reached his eyes and made them crinkle - It was one of the smiles that very few people were privy to, and one that John had been on the receiving end of more often than not. This bit of knowledge made the doctor's heart leap and return the smile in kind.

"Thanks," John said, as he plucked one of the glasses from Sherlock's hand. "So, have you cracked the case then?"

The detective just stared down at John with an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Not quite. I was able to find out that Hance uses the same company to cater all of these events, and pays everyone in cash at the end of the night."

"Right. The bloke over there tell you that?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Nothing more needed to be said and John looked up at the detective and murmured behind his glass. "Showoff."

"Of course," the detective said, raising his own glass to taste the champagne. "This is good." He did not look pleased about that.

"I thought you of all people would appreciate a high quality drink." John was thoroughly confused.

"Don't you get it? This is very _good_." Sherlock spit out the last word as if it were insulting him. "Don't you see?"

"Yeah, sorry. No."

Sherlock's mouth formed a straight line and he grabbed John by the arm, "never mind, come on."

The doctor allowed himself to be dragged across the room where the detective's painting was displayed. If any part of this had actually been real, John would have been immensely proud of Sherlock in that moment.

A young woman started walking toward the pair and John instinctively wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist. Rather than tense up at the contact, the detective leaned into it. The pressure of his prominent hip digging into John's side assured him that he was doing the right thing.

The woman sashayed past them, wearing a red dress so tight it looked as if it were painted on itself, and purred a "hello" at the gentleman behind them.

Sherlock turned his head slightly, and John knew that the detective was focused solely on the conversation taking place between the woman and man she approached.

"See anything you like?"

John couldn't hear the man's answer, but given the fact that the bloke appeared to be a red blooded male, he was able to guess the answer had been a yes.

Sherlock lead John to the painting, when the two were right in front of it, the doctor leaned closer to get a better look at the tag next to the piece.  
"Five thousand pounds?!" John hissed up at Sherlock, not hiding the surprise in his voice.

The detective didn't even bother to peer down, he simply shhh'd John and studied the pair who were now talking in hushed whispers.

"Oh this is clever." Sherlock unwound his arms from around John and produced his mobile from his pocket.

Before the detective had a chance to fire off a message, John looked up at him and asked "What is? What'd I miss?"

An annoyed huff escaped Sherlock's nose and he grabbed John's hand and pulled him toward the bathroom.

Inside the confides of the small room Sherlock showed the full extent of his excitement. John watched, mesmerised, as Sherlock threw his head back and laughed. "Don't you see? They're not buying the art." The detective spat out the last word. "They're buying the women standing near the pieces. Oh this is brilliant!"

"The women?"

"Honestly John, did you not notice that every single painting in this gallery has a woman in a red dress standing in the near vicinity of it?"

John started putting the pieces together as Sherlock stood and patiently waited for the doctor to get on the same page. "Prostitution? This is a prostitution ring?"

"Obviously. Hance is our murderer. Jean Alexander figured out what was going on and threatened to expose him. He used a can of paint that was lying nearby to bludgeon Alexander when the confrontation escalated."

"You- I- Amazing." John watched the smug smile spread across Sherlock's face. Here in the small room, the energy the detective was emitting was contagious. John only calculated it for a split second before he committed. Reaching his hand up, he grabbed a fist full of the detective's curls and pulled his face down so it was level with his own.

Their mouths came together with all of the heat and excitement that usually went along with solving a case. John melded their lips together with a crushing force, not giving Sherlock any time to process what was happening before he took the detective's lower lip between his teeth and gave it a firm bite which produced a low growl from the man in front of him that went straight to John's cock.

"You. Are. Bloody. Brilliant," the doctor said as he trailed his tongue along the length of Sherlock's neck, stopping to nip at his ear.

"John," Sherlock rasped out, and it sounded like a plea. The detective rocked his hips forward and John could feel him hardening in his trousers as his length pressed into the shorter man's stomach.

This was it, John had been waiting for an opportunity to present itself all evening and it was finally here. Recalling the e-mail he had read hours before, it depicted a scenario very similar to the one the two were in and John went for it. "Maybe I'll make you come, maybe I won't." John whispered in his ear, not caring that he had to stand on his toes to do so. He was prepared for Sherlock to give in, to beg and plead with John just like the doctor knew he wanted to do. What he was not prepared for however, was the shove backwards he received and the scrutinising glare he was now under.

In hind sight, John probably shouldn't have used words so similar to those in the e-mail; he knew that now as he stared up at the confused face of the detective. True it wasn't word-for-word, but it was close enough to trigger warning bells in Sherlock's head. John had wanted to let Sherlock know he was on board with this, not clue him in to the fact that he had been reading the detective's very private e-mails.

"How?" The question was soft, but full of fear and Sherlock's eyes were wild, resembling that of a scared cat, ready to run the second you got too close.  
John was embarrassed and shifted his weight from foot to foot while looking down.

"I, um… your e-mails." Raising his head slightly, John was met with a stare that made him wish the ground would swallow him up. "Sherlock…" he started, but the words died on his tongue. Sherlock what? _Sherlock, I'm sorry I invaded your privacy? Sherlock, I'm a prat. Sherlock, please forgive me? Sherlock, you're bloody perfect?_

"Don't." The detective straightened his back, raising to his full height. "Call Lestrade and fill him in."

Sherlock's voice was so emotionless it physically pained John to hear him speak. The detective turned and was out of the loo before John even processed he was standing alone. Chasing after him was something John was used to, but this was so different and he was desperate to reach the detective before he made it out into the streets of London.

At the front of the building, John made out the tumble of ebony curls briskly walking toward the door. Not caring about etiquette John shouted after him, knowing full well that he wouldn't be able to catch up with Sherlock before he made his way outside.

It was futile, and John could do nothing except watch him open the door and turn into the street.

* * *

I'm so sorry.  
I didn't mean for this story to have angst.  
It just sort of happened.  
Please don't hate me.


	22. Chapter 22

John paced back and forth through the empty flat, frantically trying to come up with something to occupy his thoughts. In an effort to keep busy, he'd made more tea than was humanly possible to consume, if he drank another cup he would be sick. He was fighting the urge to vomit as his stomach knotted and twisted every time images of Sherlock's hurt expression flashed through his mind.

The doctor really hadn't thought his actions through properly, this was Sherlock! Of course he had been hurt and embarrassed, what else had John expected?

John picked up his phone for the umpteenth time, checking again to make sure he didn't have any missed calls. Letting out an audible sigh, he tossed his mobile on the sofa, only to sit down next to it and pick it up again. He scrolled through his sent text messages, rereading the pleas he had sent to Sherlock over the course of the evening.

_Where are you? Sent 20:49_

_Are you alright? Sent 20:52_

_Sherlock, please answer me. Sent 21:04_

_I'm headed back to the flat, please be there. Sent 21:16_

_Where are you? Sent 21:51_

_I'm sorry. Please come home? Sent 22:02_

_You don't want to talk, fine. Let me know you're okay. Sent 22:16_

_Damn it, Sherlock! It's been over 2 hours. I'm worried. Sent 22:54_

_Please text me back, I'm sorry. Sent 23:28_

_I was wrong and stupid, more stupid than usual. Sent 00:06_

_You can't keep ignoring me, we need to... Sent 00:15_

_I can't sleep not knowing if you're alright. Sent 01:36_

_I'll come and get you, just tell me where you are. Sent 02:02_

_You've had time to calm down. Please come home? Sent 03:13_

He tapped on the screen to compose yet another message.

_Sherlock, it's all fine. Sent 03:51_

John leant his head back and closed his eyes. In that moment, he wished he'd never found out about the bloody e-mails, that he hadn't asked Mycroft to – Mycroft!

He knew that Sherlock would have hated the idea of John ringing his older brother for help, but his friend really wasn't leaving him with any alternatives.

The eldest Holmes didn't disappoint, answering on the first ring after John dialed the number he didn't recall saving in his contacts.

Before Mycroft could utter a single greeting, John cut him off.

"Where is he?"

"He's perfectly safe, John. I've been keeping an eye on him since he left the gallery."

"Mycroft, please just tell me where he is?" John asked again, trying to stay calm.

"Tut tut. Things didn't exactly go according to plan, did they, Doctor Watson?"

"Don't give me that shit, Mycroft. Just tell me where he is!"

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone before Mycroft finally spoke. "Sherlock is being Sherlock. I suspect he's experiencing some unfamiliar _emotions,_" he spat out the word as if it were a nuisance, "He doesn't process them the way normal people do, instead he shuts down."

"Thanks, but I figured that out myself after fifteen text messages and just as many unanswered calls," John spoke coolly into the receiver. "Now, please, tell me where he is."

John chose to ignore the exasperated sigh coming from Mycroft, and instead waited as patiently as he could before the eldest Holmes finally gave him an answer.

"He's in Regent Park right now. He was wandering NW1 until an hour ago."

Without saying goodbye, John hung up and put his shoes on. Needing to gather his thoughts, he flipped back through the messages he had sent Sherlock. Surely there was no doubt that John was sorry, he had pleaded, practically begged his flatmate to return to Baker Street.

Running his hands over his face, he realised the fatal flaw in his plan- Sherlock neither wanted nor needed John to beg him for anything. He needed John to take charge of the situation, needed him to fix things he himself was unable to, and the way to go about it wasn't for John to plead with him.

Keys in hand, he stepped outside into the early morning air and took his first steps in the direction of setting things right.

Sherlock was unaware of how long he'd been walking. The buildings and people mattered little to him as he ambled down the pavement, completely oblivious to the stares he was getting from fellow pedestrians.

It was only when a drunk stopped him to ask him where the party was that he looked down and remembered he was still dressed, head to toe, in the tuxedo he wore to the art show. He couldn't be bothered to care, his mind was preoccupied with a million different racing thoughts, and at the heart of every single one was John. John knew. John had found out. How had John found out? He had been careful, or so he thought. John was waiting for him at home and Sherlock had no idea what he was going to say to him when he finally mustered up the courage to return and face him.

The detective had silenced his phone after the first few messages and call, he was too much of a coward to answer them. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but it was true. He, who chased down London's hardened criminals. He, who could walk into the bloodiest, goriest crime scenes in the city with so much as flinching, was afraid to answer a simple text message. It was laughable at best.

He ended up in Regent Park, though how he got here, he couldn't say. Until he sat on the bench, he was unaware of the exhaustion in his limbs and cursed his body for never being able to keep up with his mind. He tilted his head back and admired the sky, the sun was starting to rise, but a few twinkling lights could still be seen. While he had no use for the knowledge of stars and plants, he could still appreciate them from a purely aesthetic point of view.

He retreated into his mind, it was a dangerous place to venture off into when he was in this kind of state, but it couldn't be helped, he needed to get things in order. The chances were pretty good that he would be able to afford the rent once John moved out, Mycroft would see to that if nothing else. He'd have to come up with a new way to attract possible clients, most of them generated with John's blog and without that, he'd need alternate means to yield cases when there wasn't anything interesting at Scotland Yard.

There was going to be a lot to do, and he wasn't looking forward to any of it. Still, he'd brought this on himself and he was the only one to blame for John's disgust. Yes, his flatmate had asked him to come home, but more than likely it was out of some misplaced guilt or the desire to confront him about it. That was the only reason Sherlock could fathom John even wanting to look at him. Surely he was appalled at Sherlock's behaviour and lack of self-control, the detective was even outraged with himself. He had a good thing going with John, and he'd messed it all up for one-sided delusions of intimacy.

He heard him before he saw him, brisk footsteps getting louder in his direction and pausing when the owner stood directly in front of him. Keeping his head tilted back he spoke, "I see you've found me. I'll be honest, I had expected you sooner."

"Yeah, well," John started, sitting down next to Sherlock on the bench. "It didn't occur to me to ring Mycroft until a little while ago."

"Obviously."

John smirked at that, leave it to Sherlock to remain cocky even in their uncomfortable predicament.

"Sherlock," he started after an awkward silence, but was cut off by the detective.

"You don't have to say anything, John. I'm sure I can manage by myself for a while until I find a suitable flatmate."

"Oi! Hang on, what are you going on about? You're kicking me out because I invaded your privacy?"

Sherlock jerked his head and stared at John, opening his mouth to argue but was silenced when John kept rambling on.

"May I remind you that it was _you_ who hacked into my e-mail account? If anyone should be miffed it's me! Where do you get off throwing me out of the flat because I read a bloody message that was sent from my own address?"

Though the streetlight was dim, John could still make out the small flush of crimson that was creeping into Sherlock's cheeks.

"John," Sherlock finally looked at him, "the content of those messages…" He nervously started stroking his thigh and tried to gather his thoughts. "I mean, I understand you not wanting to be around a…"

"Around a what, Sherlock?"

It was barely a whisper, but John heard him clear as crystal.

"A freak."

Understanding washed over John whilst simultaneously feeling like he'd been punched in the stomach. His heart clenched and he instinctively raised his hand to Sherlock's face and urged his friend to look at him.

Sherlock fought him, stubbornly holding his chin in place, refusing to look into John's eyes.

John could feel his nostrils flaring and the gentleness in which he was cupping the detective's face was gone. Placing his thumb on the other side of Sherlock's jaw, John gripped it tightly and forced Sherlock to unwillingly face him. The taller man closed his eyes, not wanting to meet the doctor's gaze.

"Sherlock," John had lowered his voice. "Look at me."

John could see Sherlock fighting himself over the simple command, his body wanting to comply and his mind wanting to refuse. It was difficult for John to watch because he knew what Sherlock needed, he knew that the gorgeous man wanted it and was ashamed of that fact. Knew that Sherlock hated the fact that his body had betrayed his mind, knew that Sherlock considered surrendering to his _transport_ a weakness.

"I said," John tightened his grip on the detective's face, "look at me."

Slowly, Sherlock's eyelids started to flutter open, he held John's stare and really looked at him. In the doctor's eye there was understanding and compassion, there was trust and there was assurance. There was something else there too, something just below the surface, there was heat and there was control.

"You're not a freak, Sherlock," the doctor whispered softly, his fingers losing some of the harshness, though not moving from their position on the detective's face, "and I'm not going anywhere."

If ever there was a perfect moment for a kiss, this was it, and it took every ounce of strength John had to pull away. The rejection was written all over Sherlock's face, though he didn't utter a word and John scrambled to reassure him.

He lovingly stroked Sherlock's curls and pressed their foreheads together before taking a deep breath. "We're going to do this, but we have a lot to talk about. We have to figure out what this is." Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat and John continued, "I want this, god, I want this, Sherlock. Don't think for a second that I don't, but when I kiss you it's going to be in our home with you begging underneath me, understand?"

Sherlock was vaguely aware of his head nodding his comprehension and agreement.

When John rose and cleared his throat, the detective felt empty. The warmth of John's body was no longer surrounding him and he craved it. Glancing up, he saw his friend standing over him, waiting for him to rise and join him.

When Sherlock came to stand next to him, John took a hold of the crook of his elbow and led the way towards home.

* * *

I realise this kind of sounds like an ending, fear not, there is still one more (maybe, MAYBE two) after this.

If you like this story, take a second and check out my newest WIP, **The Authors Apparition**


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